


The Circles: Book 3: To Escape a Dark Destiny

by AngmarAndElfhild



Series: The Circles of Power [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU (alternate universe), Action/Adventure, Drama, Horror, Suspense, Violence, book-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 42
Words: 138,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngmarAndElfhild/pseuds/AngmarAndElfhild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?</p><p>Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.</p><p>Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?</p><p>Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

In Book Two, "Journey of Sorrow," the Rohirric captives arrived at the gruesome wreckage of the Pelennor Fields, incidentally upon the third month anniversary of the battle. After being marched past moldering mounds of raven-picked corpses, the captives reached Minas Tirith, shaken and horrified by the ghastly harvest of carnage which they had just seen. Once a majestic city, the pride of Gondor and the West, Minas Tirith lay a sorrowful ruin, its only residents the orcs and Haradric and Easterling soldiers which made up Mordor's garrison.

Inspected and haggled over like livestock, the women and children were sold to an agent of a slave trading business based in a faraway land called Nurn. Never again would they suffer the insults and degradation of the army orcs, who, after receiving their pay, set off for the war in the north. However, the captives now found themselves at the mercy of the lecherous Esarhaddon uHuzziya, the chief slave trader.

When one of the women was brutally raped by Esarhaddon, panic and hysteria gripped the captives. Since changing hands from the army to an independent merchant, the women no longer had any protection from the lusts of their enemies, and it was within the slaver's rights to command any of them to his bed. Seizing the moment, Goldwyn formulated a daring escape attempt. Soon the slave caravan would cross the Anduin, and then there would be little hope of escape or rescue.

Many of the women looked to Goldwyn as a savior, for she had brought them the first hope since their captivity. They were heartened by the prospects of returning to their homeland and perhaps helping their beleaguered country in some way. However, just as many considered Goldwyn's plan as foolhardy, for a group of weaponless women and children could never hope to overpower strong guards armed with sword, dagger, spear and arrow. To hazard such a thing would provoke the wrath of the slavers, and make things even worse for the captives. Sentiment among the women was divided. Should they stay and accept slavery, or escape and face the possibility of starvation in the wilderness which lay between Gondor and Rohan?

Eager for adventure and yearning for independence, Elfhild was thrilled by the prospects of escape, despite her aunt and sister's disapproval of the whole affair. After much futile pleading with her aunt, she resolved to escape with the others and so she set out on her own, even though her decision meant the very likely possibility of never seeing her aunt or little cousin again. Bound by loyalty and perhaps a sense of morbid curiosity, Elffled reluctantly decided to follow her headstrong sister.

The night of the escape, as planned beforehand, the women who had chosen to stay behind created a diversion by running wildly through the camp and screaming for help. Those who hoped for escape fled in any direction they could. The twins raced through the ruins of Osgiliath, their footsteps taking them ever farther from the only family they had left. Pursued by search parties, Goldwyn was forced to leave her sons behind in hopes of luring the uruks away from them. Separated from their mother, the boys were left to fend for themselves, even as Goldwyn made a desperate flight from her pursuers.


	2. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

In Book Two, "Journey of Sorrow," the Rohirric captives arrived at the gruesome wreckage of the Pelennor Fields, incidentally upon the third month anniversary of the battle. After being marched past moldering mounds of raven-picked corpses, the captives reached Minas Tirith, shaken and horrified by the ghastly harvest of carnage which they had just seen. Once a majestic city, the pride of Gondor and the West, Minas Tirith lay a sorrowful ruin, its only residents the orcs and Haradric and Easterling soldiers which made up Mordor's garrison.

Inspected and haggled over like livestock, the women and children were sold to an agent of a slave trading business based in a faraway land called Nurn. Never again would they suffer the insults and degradation of the army orcs, who, after receiving their pay, set off for the war in the north. However, the captives now found themselves at the mercy of the lecherous Esarhaddon uHuzziya, the chief slave trader.

When one of the women was brutally raped by Esarhaddon, panic and hysteria gripped the captives. Since changing hands from the army to an independent merchant, the women no longer had any protection from the lusts of their enemies, and it was within the slaver's rights to command any of them to his bed. Seizing the moment, Goldwyn formulated a daring escape attempt. Soon the slave caravan would cross the Anduin, and then there would be little hope of escape or rescue.

Many of the women looked to Goldwyn as a savior, for she had brought them the first hope since their captivity. They were heartened by the prospects of returning to their homeland and perhaps helping their beleaguered country in some way. However, just as many considered Goldwyn's plan as foolhardy, for a group of weaponless women and children could never hope to overpower strong guards armed with sword, dagger, spear and arrow. To hazard such a thing would provoke the wrath of the slavers, and make things even worse for the captives. Sentiment among the women was divided. Should they stay and accept slavery, or escape and face the possibility of starvation in the wilderness which lay between Gondor and Rohan?

Eager for adventure and yearning for independence, Elfhild was thrilled by the prospects of escape, despite her aunt and sister's disapproval of the whole affair. After much futile pleading with her aunt, she resolved to escape with the others and so she set out on her own, even though her decision meant the very likely possibility of never seeing her aunt or little cousin again. Bound by loyalty and perhaps a sense of morbid curiosity, Elffled reluctantly decided to follow her headstrong sister.

The night of the escape, as planned beforehand, the women who had chosen to stay behind created a diversion by running wildly through the camp and screaming for help. Those who hoped for escape fled in any direction they could. The twins raced through the ruins of Osgiliath, their footsteps taking them ever farther from the only family they had left. Pursued by search parties, Goldwyn was forced to leave her sons behind in hopes of luring the uruks away from them. Separated from their mother, the boys were left to fend for themselves, even as Goldwyn made a desperate flight from her pursuers.


	3. Chapter 2 - Possessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Goldwyn..."

That was his voice, that of Fasthelm her husband! She was certain of it! Goldwyn opened her eyes and looked all about the gloomy crypt. She must have dozed off for a moment and dreamt of the day of her wedding. "Still dreaming," she thought, as a slight smile curved her lips.

"Goldwyn..."

Unmistakably his, recognizable to her in an instant, there was the plaintive sound again, coming from somewhere far beyond the partly blocked doorway. The voice was disconsolate, calling to her, pleading with her, softly stroking her mind with tender reassurances. "Such a pleasant dream," she mused. It had been so vivid, though... as clear and true as her memory of Fasthelm. She saw the night vision again in her mind... His calloused fingertips caressing her face as his firm lips brushed over her beauty spots... the heat of his body as he held her trembling against him... his deep voice husky as he ran his fingers through the golden cascade of her hair and looked into her eyes...

"Goldwyn!"

His own, dear voice spoke to her now, the voice which she loved so well, the voice that she had missed so much, the voice that she had yearned and longed to hear, the voice that held her heart and soul. Oh, how she had missed that beloved sound! But how could this be? Surely her husband was dead! Was this his spirit then, come back to console her in her sorrow and aid her in her plight? How could she dare believe such a thing! But in her heart, she wanted more than anything to believe that Fasthelm had returned to her!

What a foolish thought! Fasthelm was dead! Dead and gone forever! Imagination and wistful hopes could play cruel jests with wounded minds and hearts. She had heard nothing, nothing! Only the mournful wind sighing through some crack in the broken walls and ceiling of the tomb - that was all.

Fasthelm's voice was only an aural hallucination caused by her weariness, her overtaxed mind and body. She had heard that when people were driven beyond their physical endurance, they could hear and see things that were not there. Bowing her head, Goldwyn closed her eyes and slumped in exhaustion against the wall. As soon as she regained some of her strength, she would leave this foul place.

Behind her closed lids, Goldwyn's eyes perceived a trace of light, but she only sealed her lids tighter. She was hallucinating again! She would keep her eyes tightly shut and the vision would go away.

But it did not! The light only grew brighter!

From beyond the deep passage a pale light flickered like a will-o-the-wisp in a distant marsh. A voice in her mind called to her, urging her to look up. Yes, yes, this was her husband, who had breached the cold realm of death to see her once again! How could she have doubted him? She clasped her hands to her heart. Oh, it was he! Who else could it be? Dear Fasthelm, her true love. Oh, she must hasten to him ere his spirit vanish and be gone from her forever!

But then the light flickered out and all was dark. Goldwyn blinked several times, her eyes readjusting to the gloom which lay heavy all about her. Surely what she had seen was merely another phantom of her imagination, a trick played upon her by eyes unaccustomed to such deep and impenetrable darkness. There was no light; there had never been any light. How could there have been? She was the only living creature within these somber halls, save perhaps for the multitude of tiny spiders which spun their webs between stone columns and within long-forgotten corners.

Could it have been the dim glow of the night, visible through some unnoticed rent in the ancient stone? Her head tilted upward and her eyes scanned the ceiling, searching for any cracks which may have allowed a small shaft of starlight to seep within. But there was nothing, only more darkness. The musty smell which clung to the stagnant air proved the stability of the marble, for if any fresh zephyrs from outside were allowed entry, they would have lessened the stench of decay in these dark halls of the dead. There had been no sound. There had been no light. There had been nothing. She was a fool for ever thinking there could have been anything.

"It was only my weary mind playing tricks upon me," she concluded, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. "I will prove to myself that there is nothing there by venturing forward." Pressing her hand against her bosom, Goldwyn took a deep breath to steady herself and then rose to her feet.

As she climbed cautiously over the jumble of fallen stone which partially blocked the doorway, she felt something clutch at the hem of her skirt. Gasping in alarm, she froze in terror, icy prickles sending tremors down her spine. Slowly she turned around, expecting to see the gleaming eyes of some ghoulish denizen of the crypt, its clawed, bony fingers grasping her skirt, preparing to drag her down with him into the cold earth. She let out a sigh of relief when she find naught but the darkness facing her.

Swallowing hard, she dared herself to investigate just what had captured her dress. She almost laughed when her fingers discovered that her skirt had been caught by nothing more than a jagged fragment of rock that was held betwixt two larger chunks.

"You worry yourself needlessly," she chided herself. Feeling her way with her hands and stepping cautiously, she carefully climbed to the top of the barrier. All was quiet, save for the sound of her breathing. Then partway down the other side, she misjudged her footing in the loose debris, sending a landslide of small rocks crashing down. She held her breath and winced as she heard them clatter against the marble floor beyond.

At last she found herself on solid footing once again. When she took a step forward, she was greeted by a mass of sticky filaments which clung to her face and body, giving evidence that nothing living save the spiders had passed this way for endless years. Tearing them away from her face and hair, she flung them aside in disgust and plucked off the clinging remainders of the threads with her fingers.

Goldwyn took a deep breath and pondered her next step. She had to find her bearings before advancing, and to do that, she must guide herself by her hands. Her right hand groped for the wall, but suddenly she beheld a sight which caused her arm to go rigid, hanging suspended in space, frozen, not even a finger capable of moving. Taking shape far away in the depths of the cavernous chamber was a tiny shimmer of pale green light. There was no mistaking that phosphorescent glow now! Her eyes had not betrayed her after all!

Her breath caught in her chest as her heart pounded wildly, a scream held trapped within the depths of her throat. With wide, terrified eyes, she beheld the orb of light grow brighter and brighter until it illuminated the whole chamber. She watched breathlessly, wondering what phantasmagoric vision that her awe-struck eyes beheld.

And then, slowly, gaining strength by each agonizing moment, the glimmering beam took shape, coalescing gradually, forming shape from the incorporeal glow. Materializing into substance before her eyes was the translucent image of her husband, holding out a brawny arm, palm extended, beckoning towards her. This was no dream or illusion! He had come back, breaking the bonds of the cold spectre of death that had robbed him from her and held him captive! A look of rapturous wonder came over her face as her fear fled away. Blissful, wonderful warmth filled her heart as she beheld the presence of her beloved, and she flung her hand to her bosom as emotion overflowed within her.

The voice called to her softly, imploring. "Long have I searched for you, through dark places and desolate."

"Oh, my love!" Goldwyn exclaimed, fresh hope swelling in her heart. The old tales were true! Spirits had the power to come back! Oh, how she longed to clasp his hand once again!

"How I have hungered for you! Will you let me come near?" the voice murmured gently, caressing her soul with the serenity of its familiarity. She knew that it was his, her own husband's voice, talking to her in those comforting tones which he had used on quiet evenings when the boys were asleep. Now he spoke to her again, even from beyond the grave!

"Oh, yes, my husband! How I have yearned for your touch all these many months that you have been gone!"

Goldwyn felt a cool hand on hers and attempted to catch it within her grasp. Much to her disappointment, her fingers touched only the invisible ethers and passed through, grasping nothing but the hand of memory. A caressing touch brushed against her cheek, and she smiled with wistful sadness.

"But I perceive that you still hold some fear of me. How can this be? Surely you do not believe that I am some chimera?" The voice sounded hurt, disbelieving, incredulous. "Have I not proved to you that I am... your... husband?"

"'Tis no fear of you, but of this dread place," she offered in excuse, embarrassed that he had perceived her apprehension.

"There is naught to fear from me, but if you do not wish my presence..." The sentence dwindled away in sadness.

"No, no! I have missed you for so long!" How could she bear to cast him off, to lose him when they had just found each other again!

The sorrowful look upon the spirit's face changed into a wistful smile. "Then willingly open your arms, your heart, and your soul, so that we may commune, to be as one as we once were."

A low, murmuring moan escaped her lips as she closed her eyes and stretched her arms out to him. "I want that so much... so very much! I have been lost without you! There is nothing without you, my husband! I am surrounded by enemies and took shelter in this dread place from the orcs who chase me!"

"Naught will ever harm you while I am your protector. Never do you need to be separated from me, for I have come back for my own," the voice barely whispered.

"Oh, my love!" she moaned as she felt lips upon hers, her husband's lips.

"Forever..."

She felt comforting arms go about her waist and saw his face misted through the veil of her tears, like a phantom in a rainstorm. As she leaned against him, she felt his hand stroke up and down her back. "No dream this!" she sighed as his presence grew ever more substantial. His slow, tender caresses reverberated deep within her being. She heard him moaning and felt herself being gently lowered to the floor.

The transparency of his form gave way to flesh and blood, and Goldwyn could see the blue eyes and striking features of her husband clearly now. The air about them began to glow with a greenish hue, a livid, sickening shade, phosphorescent like the glow emitted by decaying corpses. A dull ache began to throb behind her temples, and she felt weak, so weak. Oh, what was happening to her? Surely the feeling was only the rushing emotion and excitement of seeing him once again and the exhaustion brought on by her desperate flight through the ruins.

"What is the light that shimmers around you?"

"An illusion of the mind, my love," the voice assured her. "I have you; do not be afraid."

Goldwyn tried to make herself comfortable, cradling the back of her head on her arm, sheltering it from the rough stone floor. She closed her eyes, and when her eyelashes fluttered open, she was in her own bed once again. A candle glowed on a table by the window and she felt at peace as her husband slid into bed beside her. Clasping her arms around his neck, she held him as his lips came down upon hers in an urgent kiss.

There was a vague sense of shuddering regret as she felt the spirit's cool essences invade the sanctity of her being. At the moment of penetration, she felt utterly voluptuous, as though her body had been sumptuously prepared for a carnal feast of sin. Her hard nipples were covered with honey, her jutting breasts perfumed and garlanded with ripened fruit, her thighs dripping with cream and spread wide, obscenely inviting all men to come and partake. Delighting in visions of all manner of fornication and debauchery, she writhed in languorous ecstasy upon an altar of lust, thrusting her hips upward. Her hand moved down, beckoning the living, the dead, and those who dwelt between the realms to sate their hunger upon the chalice of dew-drenched strawberries which lay betwixt her quivering ivory legs and drink of the sweet ambrosia which flowed like waterfalls from her deep pools of seething passion.

Though her head began to throb with a greater intensity, the pleasure was greater than the pain as the phantom thrust deeply into her chamber of love. He kissed her again with devouring caresses and held her tightly as he twisted inside her like a serpent.

"Soon to be mine," he murmured. "I will claim you at last!"

"Oh yes," she moaned, her back arching in ecstasy.

"All mine," the voice hissed. Suddenly Goldwyn felt as cold as the marble floor beneath her as tingling fingers of fiery ice clenched her body. A shudder tore down her spine, and she screamed when she felt a tugging, ripping sensation, as though everything vital inside her was being wrenched from her body. She lay there, half in a swoon, powerless to combat what was being done to her. And the cold! It was now intense, frigid, enveloping her in its chill. And the pain! It raced through her body, as though her being were fragmenting into splinters of cascading light.

"You are mine," the voice declared triumphantly, "all mine... you... your body..." The voice was chanting over and over, the words drumming into her mind with a solemn finality. No longer did this being sound like her husband, but alien, a stranger, an intruder. "Your beautiful body... how I want it..." His kisses grew more ardent, and her anguish intensified.

"What are you doing to me?!" she cried, powerless to resist him and his will over her.

"Our union will soon be complete," the voice told her. "And then it will be over, all over."

"I am in pain," she mumbled, struggling weakly like a dazed insect in a spider's web. "Please stop!" She wondered momentarily why his body felt so heavy, like the crushing force of a grindstone, forcing her heart to labor as she struggled to breathe. Her husband had always been so gentle, even in his deepest passion.

"Only a little more pain," the voice comforted, "until all desire is realized."

The spirit looked down at her, smiling as he caressed her face with long, thin fingers. So gentle, so comforting... so cool and soothing. Goldwyn felt her body relax, the pain seeping away to be replaced by a sense of dreamy lassitude. She sighed in deep contentment, as though her spent breath would drive all the unhappiness from her life and soul. Her life flickered with only a pale glimmer, her heart laboring to beat, her breathing shallow. Her body felt lightweight, as though she could float away. Indeed, one tiny, fraying silver thread was all that held her spirit to her frail body. She no longer cared what he did to her as long as he stayed inside her, joined to her... forever.

As the demon neared the boiling maelstrom of his release, his howling cries of triumph echoed through the chambers of her mind. The whirling torrent of his essence spread throughout her body, rolling through her being like liquid, melding into her blood, merging with every sinew, nerve and bone. Every fibre of her body was being ripped, shredded and crushed in a wine-press that would sunder soul from flesh. But she did not care. She was floating away in his arms...

"I want to sleep," Goldwyn mumbled. "I am so very sleepy..."

"Then sleep now and be at peace forever."

Far away, a great, dark door began to grind closed with a grim finality. A furtive shadowy form darted across her mind, and she raised an arm to drive it away. In spite of her protests, the great paw of a massive catlike beast with gleaming silver fur caught the door as it swung shut. The hinges resisted, groaning in complaint, but, growling, the beast thrust the door aside and flung it from its hinges. She turned her head to watch the interloper as it crouched upon coiled muscles, preparing to spring upon a dark serpent.

"No, no!" The thing that had bored its way into her body hissed like an icy serpent whose prey was crawling just outside of his reach. Goldwyn felt his unseen tentacles loosen their hold upon her soul and flesh. Her eyes closed, she lay panting upon the stone cold floor, her dress pushed up around her hips, her thighs spread wide apart. A vision came to her of Fasthelm lying upon a battlefield in the darkest hour of the cold night, a lance thrust through a great, bleeding hole in his chest. His arms reached out for her, clutching, grasping, longing to hold her in his dying moments.

"The light is blinding me!" the phantom screamed in her face, even as the scene changed into a vision of the explosion of the sun's fiery fury at the very moment of her advent. "Fire and the baleful light of dawn!"

Far towards the entrance of the crypt, there was the sound of a great crash, as though some heavy weight had been hurled aside.

"Quickly, men!" a man shouted at the entrance of the tomb. "Someone is in here! I heard the sound of a woman screaming! Hold the light for me!"

Brandishing torches, the men stormed into the chamber. Dimly, as though through a mist, Goldwyn beheld the flicker of torches and lamps. The ethereal being coalesced into dust particles, hanging above her, just out of her reach. Slowly the image began to dematerialize and fade away. The evil presence retreated completely from Goldwyn's body, but there was little rejoicing at its defeat. She felt a deep ache, an endless chasm of sorrow, as though the wraith had rent her heart in twain and stolen part of her soul.

"Do not leave me, Fasthelm! Come back!" she wailed as she extended her arms upward, reaching for him, but he was gone, slid away back whence he had come. The somber blackness of the crypt overcame her, and she fell back in a swoon upon the floor.

As through a mocking dream, she heard the spirit's railing words, "I will return, and when I do, there will be no more struggle and you shall be MINE!"

Handing the torch to one of the orcs, Tushratta bent down and lowered Goldwyn's skirt to cover her wantonly exposed nudity. "This is one of the women who escaped!" he exclaimed, gently touching her face. "I had thought someone with her, for she was reaching out as though to clasp a lover. Yet there is no other here save her!" He shook his head in bewilderment. "And her words - though I do not know her language, her voice was wrenched with sorrow! She is so pale... her skin is cold and clammy, as though death itself has kissed it!" Laying his ear to her chest, he picked up her wrist and counted her pulse beats. "The lady's heart is scarcely beating!"

An orc bent down on his haunches and peered into the woman's face. "What ails the wench, Physician?"

"A fainting spell caused by some great terror," Tushratta muttered as he stooped down and picked the woman up in his arms. "The atmosphere of this damp place is unhealthful, probably contaminated by vaporous mists that sometimes gather about old tombs and mines! We must take her from this foul place and get her into the pure air! Hold the light for me!"

"Let's get out of here," the orc muttered, looking about himself fearfully. "Garn! This old Gondorian tomb gives me the creeps! There are spirits here, ancient ones, dark and evil, and they don't want us here!"

Eager to leave the place of dread, they were quickly down the steps, gathering in front of the mausoleum. "You there," the physician motioned to an orc nearby, "spread your cloak upon the ground and I will lay her atop it. The rest of you are to construct a stretcher out of spears and cloaks."

As Tushratta waited, he knelt down beside Goldwyn's prone form, frowning as his eyes swept over her body. There was no sign of any injury that he could see. Giving her a perfunctory examination, the physician was satisfied that there were no obvious broken bones, but he was completely baffled as to what was the nature of her ailment.

"Lady, what strange malady has befallen you?" The physician looked down at her closed eyelashes, which were a dark smudge against her ashen face. Marveling at her beauty, he saw her as the image of the Goddess of Love, wrought marvelously in ivory and gold. Her hair gleamed in the soft torchlight like burnished gold, and he longed to stroke the lustrous strands of silk.

When the orcs had finished preparing the stretcher, the physician placed the lady upon it, pillowing her head upon one of his men's cloaks and covering her with his own. Satisfied that she was secure, he looked up to see the first light of dawn tinging the eastern sky over the mausoleum.

"Forward, men! Let us get back to camp!"

"Aye, Master!"

"Lady, what have you endured this night?" Tushratta asked silently as he walked beside her stretcher. "What have you seen that has left you chilled and speechless? I am baffled... I wonder..." He stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "I must consult with my scrolls when I return to the camp. Perhaps the answer lies there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolkien writes about possession and the "hungry houseless" spirits in "Of-Rebirth and Other Dooms of Those That Go to Mandos," "Laws and Customs Among the Eldar," Morgoth's Ring, p. 223-224.
> 
> "Some say that the Houseless desire bodies, though they are not willing to seek them lawfully by submission to the judgment of Mandos. The wicked among them will take bodies, if they can, unlawfully. The peril of communing with them is, therefore, not only the peril of being deluded by fantasies or lies: there is peril also of destruction. For one of the hungry Houseless, if it is admitted to the friendship of the Living, may seek to eject the fëa from its body; and in the contest for mastery the body may be gravely injured, even if be not wrested from its rightful habitant. Or the houseless may plead for shelter, and if it is admitted, then it will seek to enslave its host and use both his will and his body for its own purposes. It is said that Sauron did these things, and taught his followers how to achieve them."


	4. Chapter 3 - On Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

Concealed behind a large pile of rubble near the ruined aqueduct, the three sons of Goldwyn remained hidden until the silence seemed almost overpowering. The only sounds were the boys' measured breathing and the trilling call of a night bird somewhere towards the Anduin.

"Fródwine, it has been a long time since we saw any torches or heard any shouts. Do you think the orcs will come back to look for us?" Frumgár asked uncertainly.

"There is no way of knowing, but we must leave this wretched place in case they do. Wake up Fritha," Fródwine whispered urgently. Rising to his feet, he stretched prodigiously, limbering up his long arms and legs.

"Fritha is not asleep. He is only pretending. As a matter of fact, he bit me twice on the hand earlier tonight," an indignant Frumgár retorted.

"You would bite, too, if someone stuck his hand over your mouth!" the youngest boy protested, rallying up from his feigned sleep.

"It was the only way I could keep you quiet," Frumgár muttered. He gingerly rose to his feet, his legs numb from crouching on the chilly ground. Tugging at his brother's arm, he ordered, "Come on, Fritha! You heard him! We have to go now!"

"We must get distance between this place and ourselves," Fródwine repeated. "Is your hand bleeding where our gentle little brother bit you, Frumgár?"

"No, just a little sore where the brat attacked me!"

"Fritha, you really should not bite people, you know," Fródwine chided, the gravity of his voice hiding his sarcasm. "Orcs can smell blood. They will hear your whining, and when they do, they will come back and stick a spear through your belly and spit you up like a pig over the fire."

"Do not say things like that, Fródwine!" Fritha pled, looking about fearfully as he gripped Frumgár's hand for comfort. "You are scaring me!"

"Fródwine, I told you that my hand was not hurt, so let us talk about what we do now." Frumgár turned to his elder brother, not approving of the way he was scaring Fritha. "Which way are we going?" When Fródwine did not answer, Frumgár snorted. "You do not even know, do you?" When he still received no response from his elder brother, he clenched Fritha's cold hand even tighter. "We have to find Mother!" Always a timid boy, Frumgár felt his stomach churn and was afraid he might vomit. On the verge of tears, he sucked his lower lip into his mouth and gnawed upon it.

"No. That is not what she wanted us to do," Fródwine replied stubbornly.

"Fródwine, what did she tell you before she left?" Frumgár demanded, not certain of anything anymore, except that they were being hunted by enemies, his older brother was bullying him, and his mother was no longer there to protect him.

"She told me to take you home, and that she..." Fródwine fumbled for the words, "...would join us later. Anyway, this is no place to discuss the matter, so be quiet."

"Fródwine," exclaimed a skeptical Frumgár, "I do not believe you! Where is she and when will she be back?"

"Soon." With that word, Fródwine increased his pace and left the two younger boys behind.

"Wait!" hissed Frumgár as his fingers slid out of Fritha's and he scrambled to catch up with Fródwine. "Where are we going?"

"Home," came Fródwine's terse reply.

"Frumgár! Do not leave me!" Fritha wailed, close to tears. All around the little boy lay dark piles of rubble and broken columns. Fritha was convinced that each shadowy mound hid some monster, orc or ghoul. He could feel their eyes all around him, watching and waiting until he drew too close to one of their lairs. Then they would pounce out...

Fritha had a theory about why the horrifying red eyes of the monsters could not be seen all the time. They could will their eyes to glow if they wished, but if they desired to take one by surprise, they would dim the fell brilliance of their fiery orbs. Fritha felt the hair rise at the nape of his neck and goose-bumps prickling his flesh as they rose on his arms. What if... those things were planning to spring upon them at that very moment...

"Fródwine! I am scared, Fródwine! Wait for me!" This was no time to tarry until the ghouls launched their attacks! The little boy bounded after his two older brothers as though the fiends of hell were nipping at his heels.

***

As Fródwine forged onward through the bleak ruins of Osgiliath, his two younger brothers struggled to keep up with his long strides. Although the monsters had never materialized, Fritha fretted at the constant hurrying and Frumgár added his share of grumbling. After walking for what seemed to him like a very long time, Fritha could not bear any more. Pulling back on Frumgár's hand and digging in with his heels on the ground, he delivered his ultimatum.

"I want to find Mother now and I am not going one step more!" Fritha stated adamantly, stomping his foot for emphasis.

"Fródwine, Fritha is not going to budge! We cannot see where we are going. We are walking farther and farther away from where Mother left us. Maybe she is waiting back there for us. Let us go back and look for her... please!" Frumgár's words came out in a rapid burst, bordering on hysteria. When his mother had told him that they were going to escape, anything seemed possible, but now without her, he was lost and alone. Everything was becoming worse and worse, blacker and blacker, and he had never been more afraid in all his life.

"No, we are not going back!" Fródwine set his mouth into a stern line and resolutely slogged on ahead.

"Brother, this is a foolish idea!" Frumgár's voice was almost sobbing. "Please let us go back!"

"I have to pee!" Fritha whimpered as he jumped from one leg to another, clutching himself.

"You always have to pee!" the oldest brother grumbled as he halted and folded his arms across his chest. "If it were your own funeral, you would sit up in your barrow and announce to one and all that you must relieve your bladder! When you die, they will have to cut a hole in the side of your tomb so that you can piss out the window! Your howe will be lined with chamber-pots so that whenever you have a terrible urge, you can fill them all one by one!"

"Do not say things like that, Fródwine!" Fritha exclaimed as he kicked the ground in front of him. "You are just making it worse, and I do not want to think about tombs and dying!"

"Just pee and be quiet about it then!" Frumgár ordered gruffly.

"I have held it so long now... I do not think I can even pee any more!"

"Just go, Fritha!"

Stomping away, Fritha glanced back over his shoulder at them. "Do not look!"

"I am looking, Fritha! I am looking!" Frumgár deviled him, pointing his finger at the back of his brother, who stood facing a large rock. "You are a little girl and have to squat and pee! Look at Fritha! He has to squat! He has to squat!"

"You are both mean to me, and I still cannot pee!" Turning back to look at them, Fritha stuck out his tongue.

"Pretend the rock is an orc's face!" Frumgár suggested helpfully.

They heard a small, contented sigh of relief as a stream of liquid splashed against the stone.

"Are you finished yet?" Fródwine asked impatiently.

"Just about."

"Now?" encouraged Frumgár.

"Yes, I hit him right in the eye!" Fritha boasted as he turned around and walked back to them.

"With that victory beneath your belt, you are a real warrior now," Fródwine muttered. "Let us go! Frumgár, hold his hand. I will lead the way!"

"You do not even know the way!"

"Do you know it better than I do?" Fródwine turned and gave his brother a disdainful look.

"Stop!" implored Frumgár as he held up his right hand.

"What is it now?" Fródwine asked, greatly irritated.

"I have to pee, too!"

"What did the two of you do, drink a whole barrel of water?" groaned Fródwine. "The two of you are going to do nothing but urinate all the way back to the Mark! Hurry up!"

There was another sound of splashing liquid, and then a satisfied grunt, "All done!"

"Finally! Let us go!"

***

Together the three boys skirted around ruined buildings and piles of rubble, making their way through what had once been the proud city of Osgiliath.

"Oh!" exclaimed Fritha when they had passed by a massive column which had toppled over and broken into three pieces. The ground was littered with large chunks of the ruined support, making walking even more difficult here than it had been at other places.

"What is wrong now?" Frumgár queried.

"I hurt my foot," whimpered the youngest brother.

"Nonsense!" muttered Fródwine, a look of total indignation on his face. "You are lying because you are too lazy to walk."

"But I did!"

"Come on! Get moving!"

"I cannot!"

"Well then, sit down and we will leave you here. Then when a huge, stinking orc with bright, yellow gleaming eyes, terrible long teeth and sharp claws, and really foul breath comes along, he will gobble you up, and there will be one less brother for me to have to worry about."

"No, no, I can run! Really, I can!" Fritha shivered as he thought of the foul orcs. "Why do Fródwine and Frumgár always have to taunt me just because I am the youngest?" he complained to himself, despising his brothers. "I hate them! They are so mean to me! They always make me do things that I do not want to do!"

"Come, little brother." Feeling sorry for him, Frumgár reached out to Fritha. "I will help you. Take my hand." Gratefully the younger boy grasped his brother's fingers.

***

The two younger boys could not match the longer strides of their long-legged brother for any length of time. Before they had gone very far, they had slackened behind once again.

"Fródwine, please stop," Frumgár panted. "Fritha is just too little and he has to rest!"

"All right, let us stop here, down behind this statue," Fródwine growled. His brothers looked at him in gratitude as they sank to the ground. "But do not get too comfortable! We cannot stay here long!"

As they lay there panting, their breath coming in great gasps, Fródwine pointed towards their right, where a large dark mass stood outlined against the lighter shade of the eastern horizon. "That must be the Great River over there where the trees are growing. That means we are going the way we should."

"I am glad you know what the right way is," Frumgár muttered skeptically. Why did Fródwine always have to be so overbearing and all knowing? Just because he was their big brother did not make him any better than they were! Frumgár was very doubtful that Fródwine had the slightest idea where they were. "We will probably walk around and around in circles and get lost. Then the orcs will find us," he thought dismally.

"I am scared!" wailed Fritha. "I want to go back!"

"That would not be such a bad idea," Frumgár suggested hopefully, thinking about the great orc that must be waiting for them just ahead in the darkness.

"No! Bah! You sluggards have rested long enough. Let us move on!"

"Oh, no," Frumgár groaned as he struggled to his feet, dragging an unwilling Fritha behind him.

Fródwine would have made a good military commander. Impervious to his brothers' grumbling complaints, skinned knees and bruises, he kept them plodding steadily along the Anduin, alternately marching and resting through the remainder of the night. As the sky grew lighter towards the east, Fródwine grudgingly accepted the fact that his brothers could go no farther that morning without rest.

"Follow me... Frumgár, you serve as rear guard," he briskly directed them as he set off down the river bank.

"Fródwine, this is no game! I am not able to guard us against anything!" Comparing himself to his older brother, Frumgár always felt inferior. Fródwine was so cocksure of himself while he was indecisive and faltering.

"That is what is wrong with you, Frumgár. You have no belief in yourself! Do not think about it too much, though. Just do what I tell you!"

"There is his damnable smug arrogance again," Frumgár thought with a grimace.

***

Throughout the long walk, Fródwine's mind had been set on finding a good location for a camp. He did not want to risk placing it on the open plain of the river where they could be seen easily. They would have to do that soon enough, but maybe by then, the pursuit for them would have died down. How much time would anyone spend on searching for three young boys anyway?

At last he found a place where the young trees grew closely together, offering better cover for them. His next order of the day was to look for more food to supplement their meager larder. If only he had a fishing hook and line!

Perhaps he could tear his worn shirt into thin strips and make a substitute for a line? "Far too thick; the fish would detect that immediately," he thought in frustration. Perhaps he could spear the fish with a sharp stick? Hit them with rocks? Even if he could catch them, there would be no way to cook the fish. Though they were hungry, the thought of eating raw fish was distasteful. Fródwine did not like to think about the time when they might be so desperate that they would be willing to eat anything. There would be time to think of that later, but at that moment, he needed some rest.

"Here we will sleep," Fródwine pointed to a spot beneath a leafless plane tree. "Not elaborate," he chuckled, "but at least it has a wonderful view."

"Who cares?" Frumgár groaned as he sank down on the ground. Fritha whimpered plaintively until Frumgár slung an arm over him protectively. The smallest boy was quickly sound asleep, and Frumgár soon joined him in slumber, too tired even to care about the hunger that was growing in his stomach. As the morning sun chased away the last wispy trails of morning fog, Fródwine stared moodily at the great, rising form of the White Mountains far away across the plain.

"Home," he thought, and wondered if they would ever reach it.


	5. Chapter 4 - Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

The western slopes of the Mountains of Shadow lay brooding in darkness and mist as the dawn touched the clouds far above them and then cascaded across the summits. His mood a jumble of fragmented thoughts, Fródwine watched as the land gradually grew lighter. His gut knotted in tension and he felt the burning taste of bile rising in his throat. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours for his brain to comprehend all that had befallen them.

When his family was captured, it marked the end of everything that they had ever known. Perhaps some little hope had still lingered when the four of them remained together. Now that was gone, turned into the taste of soot and ashes. The responsibilities cast upon him were far more than his young shoulders could bear, and his spirit bowed under the heavy load.

The torturing thoughts which had plagued his mind during the night returned with a fury. Fródwine could not rid himself of the brutal scene that kept intruding into his brain... The slaver had recaptured his mother and he was doing horrible, vile things to her. The greasy swine held her by her hair as he backhanded her repeatedly, bringing a bloody smear to her nose and lips. Throwing her to the floor, the bastard pulled off his trousers... Fródwine could hear his mother whimper in pain as the slaver crouched over her, his fat haunches pumping up and down as he ravished her... Fródwine was powerless to do anything to help her!

His emotions seared raw and his brain feeling as though it were on the verge of bursting, Fródwine sat up and dug his fingers into his arm. He wanted to feel pain... the pain would drive away these thoughts. He wanted to smash something, to pound it into dust. The tension had magnified in him so intensely that he felt like screaming, the way Fritha did when he was angry. But he was too old and he could not allow himself to find an outlet in childish tears.

Fródwine's consuming hatred for the Southron raged within him and filled him with such restlessness that sleep refused him. He yearned for rest, but it only played at the edges of his mind, eluding and mocking him. Slumber was impossible! The desire for vengeance had grown into a living, consuming force that lashed his brain with all the fury of poisonous, biting serpents. He would never know peace again!

Groaning in frustration, he slammed his fist repeatedly on the ground until his hand hurt. He felt tears creeping into his eyes. "Like a baby, a crybaby!" he berated himself in disgust, rubbing his fists fiercely in his eye sockets to ground out the tears. He would not let himself cry! Closing his eyes tightly, he forced himself to hold back the tears. How Frumgár would smirk if he saw him weeping! He would never let his brothers know he was such a weakling!

He must find slumber! Though his mind was painfully awake, his body desperately needed sleep. He could not hope to struggle through the day without it! He lay back on the unyielding ground and wiggled his body until at last he found a comfortable position facing the Anduin. He was exhausted. Finally slept crept up upon him, and he drew into its embrace like a lost child seeking his mother.

Riding upon the hazy currents of his dreams, a large fleet of ships with fifty oarsmen on each side made its way down the current of the Anduin and anchored mid-river. High atop the single mast of each ship, the green and white flag of Rohan snapped smartly in the breeze. How could this be? Were these the ghosts of the fallen warriors? Rising to his feet to view them better, he hailed the men on the ships, but they seemed unable either to see or hear him.

Fearsome Rohirric warriors, all armed to the teeth, clustered on the decks before boarding the rowboats. To the cheers of those on board, the boats were quickly lowered down the sides of the ships and onto the surface of the water. Fródwine leaned forward to see them better. To his horror, he caught the sight of a great host of the enemy which stealthily moved forward row after row towards the river.

He screamed a warning, but the men in the boats seemed unable to hear. He tried to run down the bank to give them a warning, but he found his legs were foundering in quicksand. He could only watch in dread as the enemy archers nocked their arrows, pulled the strings back to their cheeks, and sent the barbs sailing skyward. His mouth opened in a scream, he gaped as the arrows plummeted down into the men in the boats. One after another of the Rohirric warriors was cut down soundlessly as Fródwine screamed in agony.

In spite of this galling fire from the enemy on the shore, the blond-haired warriors, their muscles straining, leaned back towards the bow as they rhythmically pulled the oars. Their blades swept out over the water, then dipped down like birds rising and falling as they soared through the skies. Curses on their lips, sorrow on their faces as their comrades were cruelly cut down by the darts, still the hardy men drove ever closer to the shore. Tremendous relief flooded over Fródwine and he heard his voice join their lusty shouts as the men splashed into the water and stormed up the beach.

The fierce Southrons' curved swords caught the gleam of the sun as they crashed into the vanguard of the grim-faced Northern warriors. The mass of struggling bodies was packed so closely together that Fródwine was unable to see what was happening in the confusion. Then as bodies of wounded and dying fell to the ground, he saw a clearing appear in the melee.

Thrusting his sword into the chest of a tawny Haradric warrior, one lanky blond stalwart's blade mired itself in his enemy's ribcage. Bracing the bottom of his boot on the man's privy parts, the Rohir viciously kicked his dying enemy backwards as the sword slid out of the wound with a sickening slosh. His armor rent with a great gash, the Southron lay on the bloody ground, heaving out his last breaths in torrents of gurgling bloody foam. The Rohir turned away from his fallen foe and looked straight into Fródwine's eyes. It was his father! Fródwine grinned as he watched Fasthelm plunge his bloody sword into the Southern slaver's belly over and over again.

Cheering them onward, saluting them with his upraised fist, Fródwine was spellbound as his father and the other men raced up the beach. His heart swelled with pride and he thrilled as the Rohirrim slew more enemies, doing the good work of cleansing the land of the vile pollution of the Southrons. The Rohirrim hacked their way through masses of the foe until the bodies of the slain were stacked up like firewood. Fasthelm raised his bloody sword in triumph and disappeared from Fródwine's fervent imagination.

His mind skimming the surface of consciousness, Fródwine tried to recapture the dream, but a loud snuffling snore from Frumgár tore the hopes of that away from him. Sitting up, Fródwine looked over to his sleeping brothers in irritation. Frumgár's arm was carelessly draped over Fritha's stomach and the muscles of his hand twitched and jerked spasmodically. Fritha's face wore a ridiculous expression as he breathed in a whistling wheeze from his open mouth.

"Babies," Fródwine hissed out in disdain. How could he ever hope to lead such children homeward to the North? "An impossible task. They will bleat like sheep and piss their breeches in fear every step of the way," he reflected grimly. He estimated that they had traveled only a little over two leagues from the ruins of Osgiliath. "Not nearly good enough!" A frown puckered his brow as he tormented himself. "We must make better time tonight, or the orcs will surely overtake us! But how can we?"

An imp of a thought struck him. What if his brothers were not with him? One could go much faster than could three. What if he just left them and went back alone? He could simply slip away from his brothers while they were sleeping. He looked back at them and saw Fritha's mouth twitching in that repulsive way that he had. Just leave them behind... When he reached the Mark, Fródwine would tell everyone that they had become separated and he had been unable to find them again. His kinsmen - if any of them remained alive - would mourn their loss, tell him how brave he was, and congratulate him on making the journey home in spite of impossible odds. Perhaps the King would honor him in some way for his courage and resolve.

Fródwine's expression hardened, his mouth a tight line. It would be so easy. They would not wake up until he was far away, and then it would be too late. They could never catch up with him, and no longer would he have to bear their whining and complaining! Frumgár was a babyish coward, weak and simpering, and Fritha was a nuisance, always ready to burst into tears over nothing. They would only hold him back. Everything boiled down to self-preservation, and anyone in his position would do the same, would they not?

An uncomfortable feeling of guilt crawled its way into his mind like a worm. How could he think such thoughts! No, no! He could never betray his brothers and leave them alone and stranded on the riverbank to starve or die of exposure! Instead, he would do the right thing by them! He would take them to the Great West Road and leave them there. It was for their own good, was it not? He would give them all the food, and they would have enough to eat until a military patrol found them. The soldiers would surely turn them over to the slaver's men, and then Frumgár and Fritha would be reunited with their mother. They would be safe and no longer Fródwine's responsibility. Was that not the wisest and most prudent thing to do? That was what they wanted, was it not?

After he was rid of them, he was certain that, alone, he could travel the long journey back to Rohan. His lean, lanky body was well-muscled and strong from his labors on the farm. He was swift of foot and well-versed in woodcraft. Loping on his long legs for hours at a time, he would travel swiftly. He would exist on what fat his sparse body had stored. When necessary, he would set traps for wild animals and build fish traps in streams, and the bounty of nature would be his for the taking.

Fródwine frowned at his sleeping brothers. With the noise of Frumgár's snoring and Fritha's wheezing assaulting his ears, there was no way that he could escape back into sleep. Rising to his feet, he walked away from them until he found a spot closer to the riverbank. There, their irritating racket dulled to soft whispers, and, with the quiet, he felt himself drifting back into sleep.

***

He was dressed in furs that he had tanned himself from the game that he had trapped. Arising before dawn, he consumed a hasty breakfast and departed from his small camp. The sun had barely risen when he arrived at his first trap - a trail trap, an ingenious device which he had designed himself. This product of his resourceful and creative mind had been constructed from a few pieces of wood, sinew and several thin strips of leather. Unfortunately, he had been overconfident the evening before and had not smeared enough dirt and animal droppings upon the string to mask his scent. Any game that had come upon the snare during the night had been far too wily to touch a trap that reeked of the foreign scent of man.

About a quarter of a mile farther down the trail, he had far more success. He smiled in satisfaction as he beheld a large fat hare trapped in a noose. One hind foot caught in the leather, the animal dangled from the branch of a sapling. Gloating, he congratulated himself upon the high degree of mastery and resourcefulness that had gone into making these traps from only a few simple materials. "This merely proves my exceptional talents in woodcraft," he applauded himself on his considerable skill.

Taking no chances that the hare would escape, he stunned the terrified creature with a blow from a large, blunt club. Tying its legs and then freeing it from the trap, he held the struggling, terrified animal on the ground. Beating the small body until it ceased moving, he watched the creature's carcass twitch as the blood seeped from its eyes, nose and mouth.

Taking a sharp piece of rock that he used for this purpose, he removed the head and legs. Slitting the rabbit from the rear to the breastbone, he removed the scent glands and guts, tossing the severed pieces aside. He worked his fingers along the membrane under the skin to free the furry pelt in one piece. Finishing with his hurried skinning, he spread the pelt, blood side up, on the ground. He would take it back to his camp and prepare it later for curing. Then, tearing the flesh from sinew and bone, he became even more excited as he smelled the fresh scent of blood. He felt a surge of power infuse his body as he held the dripping meat high into the air as an offering to the spirits of the forest.

Growling softly, he bit into the meat, licking his lips as the animal's blood oozed from the sides of his mouth and down his chin to drip onto his leather tunic. He finished the remains of the small creature and rubbed his filled stomach contentedly. He sucked the marrow from a bone and beheld a vast procession coming from the nearby woods. A host of creatures flew, marched, crawled, slithered and swam through his bizarre dream. Hares and other game; birds of all varieties; fish, water turtles; shellfish; snakes; the wiggling larvae of insects; grasshoppers and locusts; even masses of writhing maggots all made their way into his outstretched hands.

***

Fródwine woke up in horror and pulled himself into a sitting position, wiped his hand across his mouth and then spat repeatedly. He could still taste the blood in his mouth! An urgent craving for water overwhelmed him. "What strange and revolting dreams have plagued me! If I continue musing over such rot, I will drive myself mad within a few days!"

Once again, he felt close to crying. "I am tormented by my thoughts when I am awake and by my dreams when I am asleep." Disgusted at himself, he rushed to the river and plunged his head into the water. Rising to the surface, he shook his long sandy hair fiercely like a dog, slinging water from his drenched hair. Pushing the tangled, wet mane out of his eyes, he lay down on his stomach at the edge of the water and drank until he felt that his insides would burst. There was still the metallic taste in his mouth, like blood! When he gazed down into the water, he was startled by his reflection. Looking back at him were the bloodshot eyes and haggard face of a frightened youth.

He raised his eyes up and gazed across the river but saw no movement, no sign of life anywhere. After cursing the lifeless land towards the east, he rose to his feet and started back up the bank. Frumgár and Fritha were still asleep where he left them, snoring and wheezing, almost as though they were performing an absurd song.

Could he actually abandon them? No, not today! He would wait and decide later. In the meantime, there had to be changes. He could not allow them to whine and wail and wet their breeches all the way back. "All they want is to be safe and secure and playing their children's games as Mother patiently looks on... A game... I will give them a game to entertain them," he thought sarcastically as he kicked a clod of dirt ahead of him with his foot. With a savage little laugh, he smashed the chunk of dirt to pieces, watching as the dry particles flew out before his foot.

"What sort of game should I give my dear little brothers? Something that would appeal to them. What will it be? Maybe if I made the journey seem like some great adventure... Yes, it will be all a big game... Perhaps that is all life is, a game. The Mark will be the prize! A game for the feeble-minded, and what is there to lose?" He laughed at the absurdity of it, a dull, hollow noise that was not his own.


	6. Chapter 5 - Knights-Errant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

Frumgár awoke, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Above him, towering like a tall poplar sapling, was his older brother. As he stood with his back to the morning sun, Fródwine stared down from eyes set within hollows, sleep-starved, obscured, dark and foreboding. Frumgár felt uneasy, though he was not sure why.

"Fródwine?" Frumgár asked apprehensively. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he growled out.

Frumgár knew that arguing with Fródwine was a risky matter, for his older brother would only become angry if he were provoked. Sitting up, Frumgár glanced into the shadows that enshrouded his brother's eyes. "Have I slept too long?" Fródwine seemed different somehow, and the change which had come over him bothered Frumgár greatly.

"No, it is not time for you to be about yet. Sleep, brother," Fródwine replied tersely. "I have business to attend."

"Can I go with you?" Frumgár asked hesitantly, daring to hope that his brother would allow him to join his adventure.

"No. I will handle this alone."

"When will you be back?"

"I do not know. Do not press me so much." Fródwine's orders were crisp and cutting.

"All right, Fródwine. I did not mean to make you angry. I am sorry." Frumgár hung his head sadly. He heard a twig snap and looked up to see his brother stride away, disappearing into the trees. Yearning desperately for his mother, the younger boy felt very small, very insignificant, and very much alone.

***

He simply needed to be away from them for a while. There were too many things on his mind at that moment for him to contend with his little brothers. A fortnight or more of traveling and endless enemies still lay between them and Rohan. Their food would run out long before they ever reached the border, and then how could he hope to keep his little brothers from starving to death? He would watch them sicken and waste away by the day until there was nothing left of them but skin drawn over bones.

If his brothers died... he did not want to think about that... but if they did... Would he be counted responsible? Many would think that he had failed somehow and would place the guilt squarely on his head. But how could they! He had never been the cause of this misfortune! "It is Mother's fault!" a voice in his mind justified. For a while after that, he felt a little more comfortable with himself.

Their mother, while always kind and loving, had changed dramatically, becoming devoid of all practicality. He had seen the transformation in her come about since their father had ridden off to war. There was no point in trying to hide it from himself; she was different. Often he had come upon her when her eyes were red and swollen, and though she tried to deny it when he questioned her, he knew that she had been weeping over his father. Often, her moods had troubled him. Sometimes she seemed exuberant, happy, almost giddy, while at other moments, she would plunge into abysmal bouts of gloom and despair. What worried him the most about her, though, was the expression that sometimes transfigured her face. Her eyes would be blank and vacant, and she would stare into space. He had excused that as sorrow for their father, but sometimes he truly wondered.

Fródwine walked over to the trunk of a white oak and gazed up into the great, spreading branches. In the fork of the tree, silhouetted against the blue sky, was a squirrel's nest, its structure of gray and brown twigs, bark, leaves and moss long abandoned. An ancient graybeard, a frequent visitor of his father, once had told him that some woodsman supplemented their diets when necessary by preparing "forest bread" from ground acorn meal. Harvesting the nuts in autumn, the woodsmen would then dry and peel the nuts. Then after soaking the acorns in water to remove the acidic tannins that the nuts contained, they would grind the fruits into meal. Though not the tastiest of breads, to a hungry stomach, a loaf could seem delicious.

These thoughts of food caused Fródwine's intestines to spasm and growl like a pack of hungry hounds fighting over scraps and bones. He balled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his stomach, feeling the vibrating rumble. His eyes glanced back at the squirrel's nest and then looked up at the faraway blue sky before wandering to the base of another oak. A cache of nuts, stored and forgotten by a squirrel last autumn, had sprouted, and then died, the withered seedlings grasping like spindly fingertips for a sun that had never shone.

When Fródwine had been a little boy - how many years ago was that? - he and his father had taken their bows and quivers and gone hunting for deer, pheasant and grouse. The fresh meat had done much to relieve the monotony of the winter diet of dried peas, lentils and salted beef. The recollection of the bear they once had killed touched his mind comfortingly. He smiled as he remembered sleeping under the warmth of that massive hide on cold winter nights.

In the summer, their mother often called upon the two older boys to help her plant and tend their garden or to search for wild berries and herbs in the woodlands. Then when autumn shared its bounties, they had gathered mushrooms, nuts, wild apples, quince and plums. While he would rather be hunting instead of gardening and gathering, there was some satisfaction in knowing that he had added his part to the family larder.

As he came to the end of the grove which bordered the bank of the River, Fródwine slid his hand down the rough bark of the white oak. The broad plain lay before him and far away beyond that rose Mount Mindolluin and the eastern eaves of the White Mountains. In all that vast expanse from the tree line to the mountains, not a single blade of grass grew. The only signs of new growth were the slimy gray green patches of dried pond scum that had formed in the puddles of water after the rain, and those did little to lessen the starkness of the barren vista.

Sweeping his gaze over the landscape, he tracked the route of the Great West Road. He hesitated to depart from the protection of the trees and leave himself vulnerable to detection by any enemies which might pass along that road. He was relieved when he saw no movement and heard nothing other than the sigh of the wind. Still hesitant, however, he rested a hand against the tree and waited a while longer before venturing farther. Even though there was no sign of any life across that spreading plain, he would feel more comfortable if he had something to use as a weapon. Picking up a large strong branch, he broke it in twain. He balanced the improvised spear in his right hand, thrusting it back and forth as though he were about to hurl it at an enemy. The weight and balance were good, and he was satisfied that should he have to wield it, the point of the stick was capable of penetrating unexposed flesh.

Even if he did venture beyond the trees, what did he hope to accomplish? Was he trying to test his courage, tempting fate, or playing a little boy's game? That was an interesting question, but he was uncertain whether he had the answer or not. Was he subconsciously hoping that the enemy would catch sight of him? Perhaps if a contingent marched down the road, he would call to the soldiers, and then have the satisfaction of making a face at them, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue, and then running as fast as he could. He would tell his brothers about the joke at the expense of the soldiers and they would all laugh about it for days. It was a mad idea, but he did not really believe that a patrol would waste time for only one young boy.

Sighting on the western mountains and grasping the reassuring shaft of his rude spear, Fródwine left the trees and strode briskly onto the barren plain. He glanced back to the place where he had left his brothers and wondered if they were still sleeping. He frowned again when he thought of the two of them panicking, yelling at the tops of their voices, and rushing out to search for him. That was something they did not need. A patrol might consider that while one was not worth chasing, three boys would be a good catch.

His swift pace quickly put a third of a league between himself and the river. Deep in thought, he considered what would be their next course of action. Before he and his brothers had escaped the night before, he had begun devising plans for their return journey. He would lead his brothers across the Great West Road in the darkness of night. They would travel south of the road, moving parallel to it. Although there was always the danger of a patrol coming upon them, this was the only logical route that he could determine. How he wished they could climb over the mountains, but the foreboding rocky faces of their sheer cliffs would present too great a barrier for the younger boys ever to attempt.

As Fródwine observed the summits of the mountains, a glimmer of movement caught his eye. Soon the shape came into focus and he saw a barred peregrine tercel swing out and fly high above the plain. The tercel soared to a great height and then plunged down, his sickle-like wings folded back tightly to his sides. Down, down, he plunged after a gray dove, altering his course as his terrified prey frantically tried to evade him. As the male peregrine drew closer to the dove, his claws thrust forward. The peregrine scored a hit in his prey's left wing and an explosion of torn feathers drifted slowly downward like snowflakes. As the dove dropped towards the earth, the peregrine chased after it, clamping his talons around its bleeding, mangled flesh.

Fródwine felt his heart swelling in his chest as he watched the wonder of the falcon. His eyes followed the peregrine's flight back towards the mountains. There was a certainty inside Fródwine that the male was returning with the prey to his nest, where his mate and fledglings waited for him to return. "Birds still mate and nest, and their fledglings are a proof that nature goes on," Fródwine reflected. Though he exulted at the triumph of the peregrine, still he felt a twinge of envy at the bird's freedom. Tossing the thought aside as one unworthy of a man, he marveled as the bird flew out of sight.

The sun had traveled higher in her orbit, and Fródwine realized that he should soon return to his brothers, but he would journey on a little longer. He had actually accomplished nothing on his scouting expedition, but still he felt better. He had walked but a few steps when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something that he had previously overlooked. There but a short distance away, growing near a grove of cypress in the barren meadow, was another proof that nature was not doomed. A gastronomical wonder which would be heralded with delight on the boards of both king and commoner, a crop of common button mushrooms spread across the ground.

Of course, his brothers would refuse to accept them, pleading that the fungus was not fit for consumption and might even upset their stomachs and loosen their bowels. However, these delicacies could fill his own stomach and provide some nourishment. After gathering all he could in that spot, he moved on, searching for more until he had filled the canvas sack he had slung over his shoulder.

***

Fritha, who had been piling small stones on top of each other to form the walls of a castle, was the first to see Fródwine return. With a cry of exclamation, he jumped up, rushed to Fródwine, and wrapped his arms around him.

"Do not make so much noise! You will alert every orc within a league by shouting like that!" Fródwine chided, but Fritha hugged him tighter and buried his face against his brother's stomach.

Fritha wrinkled his face up the way he did when he was about to cry. "Fródwine, I was afraid you were not coming back, but you did! You did!"

"Of course, I was coming back, urchin! I will always return. Now move away and I will show you the delights that I have found," Fródwine replied importantly.

"I hope it is something good!" Taking a step back, the little boy looked up at him with wide, blue eyes.

Fródwine shrugged. "You might not think so."

"Fródwine, what is it? What is it?" Fritha asked eagerly, jumping up and down.

"Mushrooms... Are you sure you want to see them?" Fródwine was wearing that infuriating teasing expression that always made Fritha want to kick his shins or hit him.

"Eww, no!" Backing away, Fritha scowled as Fródwine opened the sack and displayed an unsavory looking collection of mushrooms. "You know I hate those disgusting, nasty things!"

"You were away so long, brother. In all that time, could you not find anything else?" Frumgár asked, his tone disappointed.

"You do not have to eat any of them, Frumgár. No one is forcing you." He paused and looked at his brothers sharply. "And, no, I could not find anything else to eat because there is nothing out there, not even a blade of grass nor a bud on a tree! After I wash them in the river, I will have some of these delectable morsels raw for breakfast." He turned from the boys and strode off down the riverbank, the sack slung over his shoulder.

"I am going, too!" Fritha shouted after him and ran on his short legs to catch up with his brother. Giving a long-suffering sigh of resignation, Frumgár followed behind the pair.

"Stop!" Fródwine hissed in a whisper and halted in his tracks halfway down the bank. "There, across the river!" he gestured with a pointed finger towards the Anduin. There, across the Great River, the boys could see the silvery glint of sun off metal helmets, breastplates and spear points on the other side of the Anduin. "Patrol! Stay where you are and do not move a muscle! Do not even breathe!" With the grim knowledge of the orcs across the Anduin, Fródwine forgot his earlier ideas about doing brash or brave deeds if he ever saw orcs again. "What if they signal some way to their fellows on this side? They will be right on our trails as soon as they see it!" his frantic mind told him.

"I will be quiet, Fródwine," Fritha whispered as clasped his hands over his mouth. "I do not want to see them!"

The three boys stood locked in place, motionless as statues until the patrol had marched by. "Whewww," the sound came as a whistle from Fródwine's pursed lips. "They could have seen us! Wait here a while longer until I give the word. I want to make certain that no more are coming along behind them."

"Fródwine, I am scared!" Fritha whimpered. Never far from tears, he clenched Fródwine's hand for comfort.

At last Fródwine grunted, "No more orcs! As fast as you can, go up the bank and deep into the trees. We are going to lie quiet until nightfall. Remember that there is a long march ahead of us tonight, and we will not be stopping until tomorrow morning. When I was out scouting, I saw a grove of trees. I think we can make it there by dawn and hide in the woods. Go now!"

***

When they were once again gathered in the grove at the top of the bank, Fródwine doled out some of the precious rations to the two other boys. The stale bread and dried fruit did little to fill their stomachs, and as they ate it, they looked askance at Fródwine, who plopped one mushroom after another into his mouth. As he chewed the nutty tasting fungus, he smiled as though he had never dined upon anything that had tasted so delicious. "Not that they are very good," he reflected wryly to himself, "but it does no harm to make my brothers think they do."

After they had finished eating, Fródwine wiped his grimy fingers on his breeches leg, strolled over to a tree, and leaned nonchalantly against the trunk. Watching his brothers, Fródwine knew that he never could just abandon them into the hands of the Southron slavers and their lackeys, the orcs. Never before in his almost twelve years had he had such wicked thoughts. He wondered what had possessed him. Searching his soul, he reasoned that it was his own uncertainties about the future and about himself that had thrown his brain into such a turmoil.

The time had come to tell them of "the game." Clearing his throat, Fródwine began to speak. "Attention! We are going to have a moot, and I am going to do the talking for a while. I want the two of you to be quiet."

Humming a tune of his own composition, Fritha finished arranging the stones for his castle. Placing small twigs representing soldiers before the shallow moat that he had dug, he grinned proudly over at Frumgár, who scratched his back against the spine of a crooked poplar.

"Frumgár and Fritha, pay attention!" Fródwine reminded the younger boys. Fritha ignored him and continued giving orders to his toy soldiers. After burping loudly, Frumgár scratched his left ankle with his right foot and paid half-hearted attention to Fródwine. Frowning at both of them, Fródwine resumed. "Right before she left, Mother told me that it might take some time before she would be rejoining us. She did say, though, that she would meet us before we reached the mountains."

Of course, what Fródwine had just said was a lie, but it was a convenient one, told to give his brothers a reason to journey on - the hope of seeing their mother. Fródwine had no such illusions, however, and the idea that she was never coming back had grown in his mind from a suspicion to a certainty. He must persuade Frumgár and Fritha to believe the misconception that they would meet their mother again. If they did not, he was convinced that the two of them would just give up.

"She really said that, Fródwine?" Fritha asked innocently as he looked up from his twig soldiers and into his brother's eyes.

"She certainly did," Fródwine replied smoothly, certain that he sounded convincing. "She said that all of us must be very brave, like Father. She also said that we must have a leader. Since I am the oldest, she wanted me to be the captain of this company."

"Captain?" Frumgár demanded suspiciously. "Since when do you set yourself so high above us? What will you be next? Our king?" He looked up at his brother defiantly.

"That might not be a bad idea," Fródwine grinned impishly.

Frumgár stared at him skeptically. "Rising high rather fast, are you not, brother? Are you trying to replace Théoden, the rightful king?"

"Nay, but I hereby name myself lord of this vassal state under Théoden King. I do not like to boast, but some men are born to lead and others to follow." A haughty expression upon his face, Fródwine took a deep breath and thrust out his chest. "A lord must have a court. Fritha shall be my page."

"Oh, Fródwine, you are just pretending!" Fritha giggled.

"Aye, but do not tell Frumgár that this is a game," Fródwine whispered with a wink. "He takes things so seriously, you know."

"Who am I then?" Frumgár asked peevishly. "The jester?"

"Nay, you have not enough wit for that. Those who are witless are always named Marshals." Before his brother could protest, Fródwine had quickly hurried to his next theme. "Now there must be a throne..." He pointed to a large rock nearby, gray-green with lichens and scored with bird droppings, and then walked over and jumped on top of it. "Kneel before me and I shall knight you."

"Aye, my liege," Frumgár bowed with an exaggerated flourish. "I am ready to swear an oath of fealty to you... but only because Mother wanted it, and not because you did!" He did not like this silly game at all, and was surprised that Fródwine had even thought of it, but it was far easier to go along with him than it was to argue.

"Then come forward so that I may hear your oath."

"I must excuse myself, for I have no sword by which to swear," Frumgár proclaimed. Maybe Fródwine was being serious about their mother's rejoining them later, but it might be just another one of his exaggerations of the truth. However, it never paid to take a chance, because Fródwine had always had the nasty habit of telling on him when Frumgár had been disobedient and surly.

"Swear then on the name of the King and of his family and of his hall and of the people and the country and the horses in his stable and the men of arms at his side!"

"What will it be next, Fródwine? The pots and pans his scullions clean in the kitchen?" Frumgár asked, and he could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice that time.

"Knave, varlet! You are a knight-errant who has strayed too far from truth and honor! No, of course, do not swear upon the pots and pans! Those are not worthy to swear upon!"

"They do belong to the King," Frumgár reminded him, a little too flippantly for Fródwine's taste.

"It is silly to swear by pots and pans," Fritha pointed out. "I am tired of this game."

"Be quiet, Fritha!" Fródwine ordered sternly. "This is serious business! Come forth now, Frumgár, if you will ever come forth, and swear your oath of fealty!"

"You are only pretending, Fródwine. Besides, I want to play with my soldiers," Fritha complained.

"Be quiet and let us get on with it!" Fródwine made a lunge towards the younger boy, which sent Fritha scurrying away in mock terror.

Resigning himself to this game, Frumgár knelt on one knee before his older brother and began to intone in a grandiose style. "Though I have no sword, I, Frumgár son of Fasthelm, swear upon the King, his family, his hall, the people, the country, the men of arms at his side and the horses in his stable. This my vow to you - I will serve you, honor you and respect you as my liege lord and will do all honor to the King above you. I, Frumgár son of Fasthelm, do solemnly swear this oath and may I be struck down dead if ever I disavow it!"

"Then I, Fródwine son of Fasthelm, do accept this your pledge of fealty. I, as your liege lord, promise to protect you, your family and all that you have, both in time of war or time of trouble. May I never enter the halls of the fathers if I do break this oath to you! You may rise, knight!"

"My liege," Frumgár rose to his feet and put his hand over his heart in mock obeisance, "I am honored... truly honored."

"I want to be a knight, too! Let me play! I will swear!" begged Fritha, who had finally decided to enter enthusiastically into the spirit of the game.

"No, Fritha," Fródwine declined in what he thought was a lordly tone of voice, "I already named you my page."

"Fródwine, when can I be a knight?" His innocent blue eyes looked up trustingly at his big brother.

"After you have served as page and then as squire, but that will take you years of training and service. During those years, you will learn hunting, horsemanship, swordsmanship, the arts of combat, and all the skills attendant to the rank of knight. You must also uphold the knightly virtues of cleanliness, comportment, courtesy, generosity, compassion, and loyalty. After you have achieved all that, you will be knighted. Now this session of court is hereby adjourned."

"But, Fródwine, I do not have a horse!" Fritha groaned, a look of disappointment replacing his expression of hopeful expectancy.

Frumgár walked over to his little brother and placed his hand on his shoulder. Looking down into his eyes, he grinned, "Neither do we."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as in the book, Théoden was slain at Pelennor Fields by the Witch-king of Angmar, and his nephew …omer is king of Rohan. However, the boys do not know that. News travels slowly, especially during a war when communication routes are interrupted. In this alternative universe, after Minas Tirith fell, the road north was blocked by the Mordorian forces, and little news reached Rohan.


	7. Chapter 6 - Blighted Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The orc loomed over her, his hideous face twisted in a leer. Drool and foam frothed from his mouth as he drew back his powerful arm. Elfhild cringed on the ground, flinging her hands up to protect her face and head from the stinging rain of the flail. She screamed as she was struck again and again. "That's for oversleeping, you lazy slut!" the orc laughed cruelly.

She woke up with a start, looking around in confusion, for her tormenter had suddenly disappeared. There was not an orc in sight, or an Easterling or a Southron, or any of the other captives for that matter. There was only the still form of her sister beside her, sleeping peacefully upon her side, her head resting upon the crook of her outstretched arm. They were still in the small grove of trees which they had chosen as a resting place early that morning, far from Osgiliath and the evil Southrons. Elfhild sank back upon the ground with a sigh, almost laughing in relief.

The orc had only been part of her nightmare. They were free!

They had actually done it! They had escaped!

She closed her eyes for a moment and revelled in that small victory, but her joy was short-lived. She knew that they could not stay in one place for long, lest the slavers find them. They must journey on. Each step took them closer to their beloved homeland. What would they find there? What would befall them along the way? Excitement, hope and apprehension all swirled about inside her, as well as a crushing sense of loss when her thoughts returned to the family and friends whom she had left behind.

Gnawing on her bottom lip, Elfhild tried to push all thoughts of sadness into the back of her mind. It would do no good to grieve and worry. Instead, she would think of the future - not the immediate future, which was fraught with uncertainty, but the distant future which still dwelt in dreams and fantasies. Yes, that was the key, she thought resolutely. Her hopes would sustain her through the dark days to come. They would be like the strongest shirt of mail and sturdiest shield, for despair was an enemy far greater than any orc or man.

Ah, but enough of such serious ponderings. Now to rouse her sister. After pushing herself into a sitting position, she laid her hand upon the other girl's shoulder. "Elffled, wake up," she exclaimed cheerfully.

Elffled opened her eyes and blearily looked up at Elfhild, blinking from the intense light which flooded her vision. "What on earth could she want," she wondered, mumbling her displeasure at being awakened.

"'Tis our first day of freedom!" Elfhild explained, smiling at her sleepy sister. "Rise and enjoy this beautiful morning!"

"Aye, and I have traded one slave-driver for another, and a mad one at that," Elffled muttered crossly as she sat up. Such good cheer was not appreciated when one had been awakened unnecessarily from restful slumber and pleasant dreams. Both were hard to come by in such days.

"I am no slave-driver!" Elfhild protested defensively. "You are so surly in the mornings! If I were a real slave-driver, I would lay the lash upon your back! You certainly deserve it!" Laughing, she mussed her sister's tangled hair, making sure to dodge the retaliatory slaps of Elffled's hand.

"Damn her," Elffled thought, in no mood to put up with her sister's foolishness. Why was she so accursedly happy? Here they were, in the middle of nowhere, far from their aunt and cousin. What good had come from this ill-conceived escape attempt? By fleeing from the foe, they had deserted the only family they had left. Oh, how Elffled hated Goldwyn! She had done far more harm than the slavers ever had. The men of the South and East, though they were all savage barbarians, at least would have allowed the captives to stay together until the end of the journey. Now the great tragedy which loomed in the future like the clouds of a fell storm had come to pass prematurely, and what little time that Elffled had with her family and friends had been squandered. And for what? Naught but a foolish hope.

Never had she expected that Goldwyn's silly plan would actually be successful. She had counted on the vigilant guards to save her from the stupidity of the other captives, but the worthless Haradrim had failed her! Though it was absurd and made no sense at all, she felt just as angry at the Southrons as she did at Goldwyn. Now there was no going back. Or was there? If she and her sister surrendered to the slavers, would they be tortured for having tried to escape, or would they be rewarded for returning? Elffled did not know. Perhaps she was an evil traitor for even thinking such thoughts, but she could not help it! She was just a selfish girl whose only wish was to be back with her aunt.

Feeling utterly wretched, Elffled heaved out a sigh. Truly they had escaped, and she hated every moment of that so-called triumph. Oh, how she missed Leofgifu and Hunig, and all of her other relations, friends and acquaintances! Even when she dwelt back in the Mark, she had seldom been more than a mile away from her family for any length of time. Her heart felt as though it were breaking and it was a challenge to keep the tears at bay. Was not her sister even the slightest bit sad, or had Goldwyn's impassioned speech driven her little brain out of her skull? Oh, how she hoped this madness would pass, and pass soon!

***

The late morning sun shone down through the aborted leaflets which clung forlornly to the boughs of the trees, offering little shade below. Though it was the middle of June and the woods should have been filled with bright green foliage, to the trees the season was yet winter. Some would never see another summer again, for they now stood as still and solemn as stone memorials, and just as lifeless. It was a demented forest, hungry for light and rain after being buried alive in a grave of darkness.

Spring had come, but it had been blighted, and delicate buds had developed over time into elongated spurs, wan and sickly of color. The pale, bony fingers of the branches stretched out like hands, skeleton trees barely clinging to life. Since the war had broken out in the spring, the trees had fought their own battle against the billows of smoke and fumes which assailed them from the East. Tiny, silent mouths screamed for water and only choked upon the filth which filled the air and coated deformed leaves in a film of suffocating grime. In this dreadful morass of sulfur and brimstone, the trees floundered in pain and anguish like blind men cast into a sea of poison.

At last, the rain had come and the clouds of Mordor had been driven back across the Mountains of Shadow, but it still would be some time ere the woods of Gondor and Rohan would fully recover. The spring in the West had been disrupted and utterly destroyed - just like another Spring long ago beyond the distant reaches of time.

The sisters breakfasted beneath the ailing trees. The continuing theme of Elfhild's conversation was the daring escape, of which she spoke about with great enthusiasm, much to her sister's annoyance. Oh, how Elffled wished she could just get her gratingly cheerful voice to be still for a moment! Everything seemed so surreal, like some half-remembered recollection from a fever dream conjured up during a night of restless sleep. Elffled's mind struggled to comprehend all that had happened since last night, but it was as though a thousand ages had passed since then, and they were trapped in some madman's nightmare. "Or woman's," Elffled reflected spitefully, thinking of Goldwyn.

"Truly we are fortunate," Elfhild reminded her, the words seeming to mock Elffled, even though they contained no malice. "No more orders, no more leering faces, and not one Southron and Easterling in sight! I do not think that I shall miss them at all." Laughing, she added, "I can barely believe that we escaped! It seems so strange... I have to keep pinching my arm to remind myself that this is not all just a wishful dream."

"And now that we are free," Elffled inquired, turning a steely gaze upon her sister, "what do we do now?"

Elfhild stared at her for a moment in total disbelief. "Do? What do you expect us to do? Why, we will walk until our feet ache too much to carry us," she replied haughtily, stepping into her role as self-appointed leader. "Then we shall rest and walk some more. It is a two-day journey back to Minas Tirith and the Great West Road, but we must not go towards the city! I think our best course would be to head due west until we come to the road. If our luck holds up, we shall reach it tomorrow night or the next night. Then we will follow its path at a distance, so as not to be detected by any patrols. That way, we will be far north of the Mundburg and the vast numbers of enemies there. The road is the only sure landmark of which I am familiar, and I do not want to get us hopelessly lost."

"Do you realize that it will take us almost a month to get back to where our village once stood?" Elffled asked, putting her hands on her hips. "And we have little food... and no weapons... and we shall be walking through territory now held by our enemies... Does not the realization yet dawn upon you that most people would think our plight hopeless?" She clamped her mouth shut. Oh, who ever listened to her anyway?

"I prefer to worry about only one day at a time," Elfhild remarked, brushing aside all of her sister's concerns with a meaningless phrase meant to be encouraging. "We shall contemplate that when we cross the Mering Stream and our feet tread across the blessed fields of the Eastfold."

Elffled shrugged, not wishing to press the matter. It would only make her feel even more woeful. This foolish escape attempt had been talked about incessantly, and she was sick to death of hearing great, heroic speeches. If she heard another one, she would surely scream!

"Since we are through eating, I will put the food away," Elfhild sighed gloomily. She was still hungry, but she would not eat any more. That was another worry which troubled her mind, much more than she let on. How would they obtain more food when their supply ran out? There would not be anything growing for quite some time. "Maybe a few people yet remain in Anórien," she reflected hopefully. "Surely the orcs did not destroy every village and capture every man, woman and child! If a village was located at a goodly distance from the road, then surely it would remain untouched... I only hope that there are a few people left to help us, and not all have fled into the mountains!"

As Elfhild returned the remnant of bread to her cloak, Elffled looked to the territory beyond the little grove. Stretching far to the north, south and west were barren fields and the brown blotches of even more leafless trees. Here, far from the other captives, Elffled felt keenly aware of the desolation which spread for miles and miles, the sense of total isolation, as though she and her sister were the sole survivors of some horrible calamity.

"I wonder if the land will ever heal from the darkness," she sighed, just to distract herself from the feeling of uttermost emptiness.

"At least the sun has returned." Elfhild's eyes darted up towards the golden orb in the sky. "Sun and rain are what we need now."

Elffled nodded in agreement, but the land was not the only thing that had changed. Even if time restored the Mark to its former glory, still it would never seem like home. All that they had known was gone; their village destroyed; their mother dead; their friends and relatives taken into captivity. What made home a home – the land itself, or the people who dwelt there? Though Grenefeld had been sacked, Elffled felt as though the whole village had traveled with them. Family, friends and neighbors had suffered together on every step of the eastward journey, each woman sharing the fears and sorrows of all the others. Sometimes she had imagined them all as a clan of wandering herdsmen from the northern regions of Rohan, though they were not wanderers by choice.

But now Elffled and her sister were all alone. Oh, how she missed her aunt and cousin! What joy was there in returning to Rohan if their beloved kinswomen were not with them? Now they were sundered forever! She almost wished that her aunt had reconsidered her decision to stay behind and had accompanied them on their flight. She felt so lost, so frightened, so desperate.

Sensing her sister's unease, Elfhild asked gently, "What is wrong? You seem troubled... I know you are worried about the future, but we cannot fall prey to despair, lest we become so sorrowful that we just give up."

"Oh, I was just thinking about Aunt Leofgifu and Hunig... I wonder if they decided to escape." Elffled's fingers absently trailed along the ground, pensively tracing over the rough texture of a small stone.

"Last night everything happened so fast... I – I could not be certain what transpired after we said our farewells." Elfhild shook her head sadly. "Leofgifu was quite adamant about not going, but perhaps she changed her mind. Maybe they are making their way west, even as we now speak. Maybe we shall meet them along the way, and they will travel with us."

"That would be good," Elffled sighed, her words empty and hollow. Everything that could be said had been said, and she was tired of talking anyway. She sank into an uncomfortable silence. She missed her aunt and cousin so much that it felt as though they had died and now she was grieving. Oh, how soon would it be ere Elfhild came to her senses and realized that they were doomed out here all by themselves? And how soon would it be ere the two of them were recaptured?

***

The two sisters walked on in silence beneath the canopy of stretching limbs. The sun filtered down through the boughs, making patterns of light and shadow upon the ground. The morning was a hot one, but the breeze felt refreshing and pleasant as it stirred their hair and gently pushed at their skirts. To their side, the Great River rolled on, ever flowing towards the Sea as it had for thousands of years.

Soon they had left the grove behind them and set their course upon a meandering path which led them beside a wide meadow. The ground was covered with tufts of dead grass which had sprouted up in the spring but soon wavered and perished from drought. Where the ground was rougher, daisies and other blossoms should have been blooming, but the land was barren, still healing from the Dark Lord's ruin.

Elfhild wondered if a farmer had lived there and if his daughters had once played in the field, weaving chains of flowers to wear as circlets and necklaces. That thought brought a smile to her face, but the expression soon faded. Far, far towards the west, she thought she saw tiny shapes moving.

"Elffled, I think I see something in the distance!" A small stream had its course a little ways north of the meadow, and upon its banks there rose up a line of trees and bushes. Pointing towards the thicket, Elfhild ordered, "Quick, climb one of the trees! Pick one with sturdy branches and climb as high as you can. Look out over the surrounding lands and see if there are enemies to the west!" She gave her an apologetic look. "You know how I am afraid of heights!"

The twins sprinted across the path and towards the stream, taking cover within the thicket. Soon Elffled had located the tallest tree she could find, a large plane tree which dug its thick roots deep beneath the bed of the watercourse. Grasping the first stout branch which was within her reach, she carefully scaled up the wide bole and soon rested high above the ground in the crotch of two massive limbs.

"Do you see anything?" Elfhild's hushed voice demanded.

"Unfortunately, yes," Elffled replied, looking down at her sister. "Men on horses... others on foot... maybe orcs. They appear to be heading northward."

"Oh, no!" Elfhild exclaimed fearfully, gnawing on her fingernails. "They will be scouring the land for those who escaped! We cannot go west, but we cannot stay here! We have to keep moving, lest we are found!"

Panic rose in Elffled's voice. "What do we do then?"

"I am afraid we will have to go back the way we came," Elfhild sighed, slumping against the tree in defeat. "Since we cannot go west, we must follow the Anduin for a while. As far as I can tell, this stretch of it runs a straight course from north to south, almost identical to the path of the Great West Road. The river will not lead us wrong! We can use it as a guide, and then when the danger has passed, we head west again. Hopefully by tomorrow morning, the search parties will have gone elsewhere, and we can resume our journey."


	8. Chapter 7 - The Aftermath of the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Master! Two riders ahead!" The broad-faced, sallow-skinned part-orc gestured with his hand. The physician's attention was drawn to two barely discernible figures moving towards them through the fog of early dawn.

The physician narrowed his eyes and squinted into the trees that sheltered the ruins of Osgiliath. "Fûshfra, I can see them, but not so well as you."

"Master, can you not see Shakh Esarhaddon's chestnut mare and Shakh Ganbar's roan gelding?" The superior tone of the part-orc's voice did nothing to conceal his scorn for the limitations of the Khandian.

"Aye, even I can tell that they are horses!" the doctor replied irritably.

With a shout of "Hail!" the horsemen cantered up to the small group and halted their horses a short distance away. Accepting the extended obeisances of his servants with a perfunctory nod, the slave master was quickly off his horse. Giving his mount's reins to Ganbar, who led the animal aside, Esarhaddon strode over to the stretcher which held Goldwyn. Frowning in consternation, Esarhaddon looked down at the still form of his new favorite and then turned to the part-orc.

"Fûshfra, what have you and your louts done to her? If any serious harm has befallen this slave, you and your devils will soon have to squat down to piss because I will order your stinking, foul members cut off and shoved up your hairy arses!" Though his tawny face was suffused with an angry, ruddy flush, Esarhaddon's voice was calm and deadly cold.

Terrified of the slaver when he was in a rage, the mixed breed orc crawled on his knees to the man and groveled at his feet. Lifting up Esarhaddon's foot, the uruk placed the boot sole on his head, showing his total submission to the slaver. "Master, none of us has laid so much as a finger on the woman! Just ask the physician! He will vouch that I am telling the truth!"

Esarhaddon turned to the physician. "Tushratta, is this true?"

He nodded. "Fûshfra is not lying."

His questioning of Fûshfra not completed, Esarhaddon went on, his foot keeping a light pressure upon the uruk's bowed head. "What took you so long to find her?"

"The woman is clever, Master!" the frightened part-uruk whined. "When she bolted and ran, she took us by surprise. She is as swift as a deer and quickly outdistanced us. Her scent was mixed in with that of other escapees, and we had quite a time sorting hers out from the rest. We almost had her after that, but she evaded us yet again by wading into a stream where we lost her scent in the water. She traveled down the stream for a long distance, but we eventually picked up her trail again." Knowing that the slaver had the power of life and death over him, Fûshfra was terrified. He was sweating heavily, his body reeking with the stench of his fear.

"And her sons? Obviously, you lost them, too!"

"There weren't enough of us to look for both the woman and her sons. Since a choice had to be made, I assumed that you would rather we searched for the woman." By the sweaty balls of the Black Master, would this man crush his skull?

"Fool! I wanted them all!" Jerking his foot from the sniveling Fûshfra's head, Esarhaddon pivoted and turned to a gaping part-orc nearby. "When we return to camp, you will see that Fûshfra receives one hundred lashes for his impertinence and his gross incompetence, and he should be grateful for each stroke!"

"Thank you, Master, thank you! Your mercy is without end!" Bowing his head up and down, Fûshfra crawled backwards away from the slaver until he thought it was safe to rise.

Esarhaddon turned back to the still unmoving woman upon the stretcher. Reaching down, he touched her pallid face. Then looking questioningly at Tushratta, the slaver spoke in a calmer voice.

"Physician, suppose you tell me what happened."

"My lord, as Fûshfra has related, the woman was difficult to track, losing us upon several occasions," Tushratta replied. "As we drew near to a ruined tomb on the northeast of the city, we heard screams. When we ventured inside the vault, we found her as you see her now. The orcs searched the crypt, and there was no evidence that her sons had followed her. There were no visible marks on her body, save a few scrapes and bruises, probably incurred during her flight. I did not discover any broken bones or head injuries upon first examination," the physician explained with a detached, unemotional formality.

"Then how do you account for her condition?" Esarhaddon demanded, scowling. "She has a strange, sickly pallor, and her skin has the coolness of a person who is close to death!"

A concerned furrow between his brows, Tushratta shook his head. "My lord, I have already explained to you that there seems to be nothing physically wrong with her. From all indications, she appears simply to have fallen into a deep slumber." The physician glanced down at the woman, who was breathing slowly and rhythmically. "I do not feel that it is beneficial for her to stay out here in the chill of early morning. With your permission, Shakh, we will take her back to the camp."

"By all means, she should be moved to a more comfortable location!" the slaver affirmed. "I cannot tarry long, but I will walk with you a while. Tell me everything that you observed when you reached the tomb." With a command from Tushratta, the small procession shuffled into step and set off towards the camp, the slaver on one side of the stretcher and the physician on the other. "Possibly you have some theories that would explain what we see here. When you came upon the woman in the tomb, was she like this?"

The physician's mind went back to the bizarre scene which had met him in the tomb. He had reservations about telling the slaver of the woman's condition when he had found her - her skirt bunched up around her waist, her thighs spread wide apart. Esarhaddon would never understand, and would be convinced that the woman had been pleasuring herself in the house of the dead, an act so base and depraved that it would carry the penalty of a severe flogging in the South. Tushratta did not think that Goldwyn could survive such a brutal beating, and so he tempered his reply.

"When we found her she was lying upon the floor of the crypt, her arms outstretched," Tushratta told the slaver, revealing only a part of the truth. "She seemed to be reaching out for some unseen presence, but whether she did this to embrace it or drive it away, I know not which. She cried and moaned in her own language, and then fell back unconscious. It was as though she had seen something so terrible that the horror of it caused her to swoon."

"My good physician, I feel that you are letting your imagination make more of this than there is," the slaver laughed derisively. "When the woman was with me in my tent, it was obvious that she was of a nervous temperament. Such females are given to outbursts of intense emotion over the slightest of things. This type of woman is difficult to manage, but often they make the best of all lovers. What you witnessed was probably no more than a fit brought on by hysteria."

"Perhaps you are correct, Shakh, and her affliction is nothing more than nervous exhaustion." Tushratta shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "However, in all my years of experience as a physician from here to the Land of the Two Rivers, I have observed only one other case that even remotely resembles hers! That situation, too, was equally baffling."

"What was it?" the slaver prodded, eager for the physician to get to the point.

Nervously, Tushratta cleared his throat. "My lord, if I should give you an account of that other matter, you would only be offended. You will dismiss it all as nothing but ignorant superstition, much as you are wont to dismiss other such matters."

"Whether I become angry or not, I suggest you explain to me the situation to which you refer," Esarhaddon demanded impatiently.

"Aye, Shakh, if you would hear of the matter involving that which I speak..." Tushratta paused, hesitating. He eyed the other man questioningly.

"I already told you that, Tushratta. Speak on!"

Pursing his lips in thought, a pensive expression on his face, Tushratta looked away from Goldwyn and into the face of the slaver. "When I was still a student in the Great City of the East, Bablon, that jewel of a city..."

Esarhaddon had heard the physician's glowing accounts of his native land many times before, and the topic always wearied him. Frowning, he cut the physician short with a curt interjection. "I know you take great pride in being a Khandian."

"Aye, and not without justification," the doctor remarked dryly.

"Get on with the story, damn it!" Esarhaddon had almost run out of patience.

Tushratta allowed a small smile to creep over his face. "The physician under whom I studied was a highly skilled surgeon whose reputation was known far and wide. In addition to his mastery of medicine, he was also a great healer of the woes of the spirit, a shaman - or, as they are called in my language, an _ashipu_." He thought back to his days as a student at the great bimaristan of Bablon, and of the long, difficult years of study under the great masters. The Haradric slaver, though, was not a man of science or metaphysics. An ignorant man, the physician thought derisively, but least he paid well.

"In this great school of learning, there were many other talented physicians, who sought to learn all the skills and arts of healing," Tushratta continued, but he was not certain if Esarhaddon was still listening. "Patients with illnesses of all kinds, both of the mind and the body, were gladly admitted to the bimaristan. The majority of the diseases were those commonly known - fevers; sleeping disorders; palsy; leprosy; tumors; blindness; the wasting disease; and many others. No one was turned away, not even those who suffered from the 'love diseases,' the poxes that eat at the privy parts - and in that city, unfortunately - or fortunately, depending on how one sees it - there are many brothels."

"Aye, I know the pride you people take in your famous houses of pleasure," Esarhaddon muttered irritably. "The people of Khand delight in praising their temples of fleshly delight almost as much as they do in extolling the wonders of the ziggurats. But we are discussing neither at this time." He glanced down at the woman on the stretcher and thought that her color might be a little better.

Deep in thought and paying little heed to the slaver, the physician ran his tongue over his lower lip and absentmindedly tapped his finger to his chin as he walked along beside the stretcher. "Sicknesses of the mind, heart and soul could often be assuaged, and occasionally even cured - or, at least, lessened by the salubrious usage of various potions and narcotics..."

"I am aware of all these things!" His patience at an end and thoroughly tired of the subject, the slave master's voice rose crossly.

"I beg your indulgence, my lord," the physician replied quietly. "I reiterate these things merely to show you the nature and diversity of the ailments that were treated and the variety of methods that were employed in deriving their cure. Even though most of the cases were quite routine, there were sometimes unusual cases which were brought to the master physician's attention - for he was indeed an ashipu of considerable power and repute. For these particular diseases, he would call upon the aid of the gods and goddesses and make sacrifices in their names to heal the afflicted. Sometimes the Powerful Ones took pity, while at other times, they did not deign to do so. Who can know the minds of deities!" Tushratta shrugged his shoulders.

"Physician, I thought you were going to tell me about some unusual experience that reminded you of the lady's illness." Esarhaddon, his mouth a tight, thin line, his expression one of resentful long-suffering, rhythmically thumped his riding crop against his thigh as they walked along.

"Yes, my lord, I was just getting around to that." The physician smiled. "I can remember it as though it were only yesterday." His eyes took on a dreamlike quality as he pictured the scene in his mind. "Near dawn one morning, the people heard the great alarm gongs being struck in the towers, and then the warning trumpets were sounded. There was a great tumult along the riverbank. People seemed devoid of their senses, running to and fro or hiding in their houses. Many thought that the city had been attacked, or some great natural calamity was about to befall us. Many even feared that the dread Day of Doom that would signal the Last Battle Between Good and Evil was upon us.

"By the Gods in their palaces of pleasure," Esarhaddon thought, "I think I have heard this story before!"

"Of course, it was nothing at all like that," Tushratta chuckled. "For most of the night, a group of fishermen had cast their nets unsuccessfully. When it was near dawn, they were so disheartened that they were about to give up, but they decided to cast their nets one more time. Almost as soon the weighted net sank into the water, the fishermen felt a great tug and rejoiced that finally their efforts had been met with success. With great joy and strong resolve, all of the men set their muscles to the task and strained to draw up the hoard of fish. Though they hauled and tugged with all their might, the net would not budge!" Tushratta paused. Even the uruks were listening to his tale!

The physician cleared his throat. "Their captain - a great, brawny man of unsurpassed courage and strength, whose thick arms were veritable timbers of bulging muscles - put his own shoulder to the task. Exhorting his men to the greatest of exertion, he reminded them that enough profit would be made off this one vast load of fish to feed their families for many days to come." Tushratta's voice became more excited. "The men lay into the work with greater zeal than even before, and as they drew up the net from the water, they began to sing. However, the song soon stilled in their throats," he added for dramatic emphasis. "As the net broke free from the surface, up with it came a great seething and a foment of the current. Then with a mighty churning and foaming, the water swirled and rose into a waterspout which spun, boiling over the sides of the ships like the tide and threatened to submerge the two rivercraft.

"Chaos broke out among the fishermen, for none among them, not even the eldest, had ever seen such a storm upon the river. Some became so terrified that they lost their senses. Plunging over the sides of the ships, they attempted to swim to shore. Ere any of them ever neared the farther bank, the water boiled up about them and swept them screaming down into the depths of the river." A look of sadness came over the physician's face, as he thought of that terrifying morning so long ago.

"The weight in the net was so heavy that the cording was stretched taut between the ships. Some on the shore swore later that they saw some huge form struggling in the net and heaving itself up out of the water in an enraged fury. As the men worked to save the ship, a fierce wind sprang up, buffeting the waters until they formed great waves which lashed against the sides of the ships. The maelstrom became so violent that it turned the water into angry billows which slammed against the ships which were moored at the dock, dousing onlookers who pressed too close." The physician paused, hearing in his mind once again the screams.

"Then from the heavy black clouds that lay from horizon to horizon, the lightning raked down from the clouds as the squall roared and snarled. In the brightness caused by the bursts of lightning, many swore they could see a great, white shape in the midst of the water. The monster had long, streaming hair that blew wildly about its head. Savage, gleaming eyes it had, which shot out white sparks. The phantasmagoric being thrashed in the water, spitting and hissing like some great serpent. Its long, gnarled claws grasped the nets at the sides of the ships and dragged the vessels down with it into the heart of the river." Tushratta fell silent, looking down at the woman.

"And the point of all this, Physician - other than to prove once again that the Khandians spend far too much of their time indulging in the delights of sauma, kapurdri, poppies, harmal and kannabis, and the other drugs and potions which they love so well - is what?" Esarhaddon asked dryly.

"If you will bear with me, Shakh--" the physician exhaled in a long sigh.

"Tushratta, I believe I have been listening patiently for quite some time. I am baffled, though, as exactly what all this has to do with the slave woman."

"Aye, Shakh, you have been most gracious in hearing me out, and I will soon conclude my tale," the physician replied apologetically. "When I have finished, perhaps you shall see the parallel between the two situations. All the fishermen perished either when the ship sank beneath them, or when they tried to swim across the river. The only one who survived was the captain, and his grief was too much to be borne. Besides losing all his crew, he also lost six of his sons, two of his brothers, and many other kinsmen." Tushratta shook his head sadly.

"Before this strange happening, he had been a stalwart, robust man who was only in his mid-years. His beard had hung down his chest and was thick, black and curly. When he was pulled naked and senseless from the river, his hair was as white as a grandfather's, his face was wrinkled as a man twice his age, and he was howling like a dog struck with madness. He soon succumbed into a stupor and lay for days, pale-faced, his skin dry and cold to the touch, almost like ash."

"And what was offered as the cause of this calamity?" The slaver was certain now that he had heard this same story at least once before, but he was not about to admit it.

Knowing the cold skepticism with which his words would be viewed, Tushratta inhaled deeply and then let his breath escape in a resigned sigh. "Many of the witnesses swear the source of the evil was a river djinn."

Esarhaddon snorted, his nose wrinkling in revision. "Are you trying to say that this woman has seen a djinn? Damn it, man, if this matter were not so grievous, I would think your idea was accursedly humorous! However, I am in no mood for levity. The woman has grown to be of some importance to me."

"I say nothing, shakh. I judge nothing. I merely tell you of a similar occurrence, which, quite possibly, has nothing whatsoever in common with whatever befell her." The physician's eyes did not waver as they met those of Esarhaddon.

"Surely you do not expect me to believe such a far-fetched tale as you have just told. Whatever happened must have an explanation that holds true to natural law. But a djinn!" Esarhaddon exclaimed skeptically. "By the golden globes of Ninanna's perfect tits! You cannot be serious!" He wished he had not left the wineskin on his horse's saddle. A drink might make this story more bearable.

Flushing slightly, Tushratta cleared his throat and blandly droned on. "Aye, certainly, there was a very natural explanation for the capsizing of the ships, offered by men of scientific bent. A sudden storm was driven inland from the coast and swept up the river. The learned men of science maintain that this phenomenon, and no other, was the true cause for the sinking of the ships." He smiled, knowing that the slaver would approve of the logical explanation.

"But here is where the parallel may be drawn between the unfortunate end of the ship's captain and this woman," Tushratta announced, his voice taking on that dry, professional quality which always bored the slaver to frustration. "During the long night, the captain had drunk himself almost to oblivion, and so when the storm came up, he was lying senseless on the deck. The physicians at the bimaristan theorize that after he sobered up and his wits returned to him, the captain was driven mad by the accumulation of the malignancy of his thoughts. Just as you maintain, the best scholars and natural philosophers give no credence to the existence of evil djinns."

"That was a long, roundabout and rather redundant way of explaining that you think that the slave woman was driven mad by something she saw in the tomb," Esarhaddon muttered in disgust.

"Not necessarily something which she saw, Shakh, but more probably what she thought she saw." The physician thoughtfully tapped his finger on his bearded chin. "Here is my explanation. Since her sons were not with her when she was found, either they were separated, or, more likely, she sent them away. For a mother to part willingly with her sons would be a great strain upon her mind and heart. Perhaps the total realization of what she had done dawned fully upon her while she was in the tomb. Possibly the combination of that frightening place and her guilt has upset her emotions to the extent that she cannot face reality for the present."

"Then suppose that you are correct, physician. What do you propose as the cure to her illness?" Esarhaddon asked skeptically.

"As you know, my lord, I am only a surgeon and physician. My skills lie in the administering of medicines, the applying of compresses and the treating of wounds, not the maladies that claim the soul," Tushratta returned humbly. "If you believe in such things, you should consult a shaman, an ashipu, to appeal to the gods on her behalf."

"Damn it, Tushratta! How often do I have to reiterate that I do not believe in magic, soothsayers, fortune tellers, sorcerers, and all their assorted rubbish! It is all superstition substituting for religion in the minds of the ignorant! I am not about to spend good money to consult a damnable shaman!" Esarhaddon growled, angrily slapping the riding crop against his thigh. He winced slightly as he felt the leather sting his leg. "Treat her with what means and methods as you have available at your disposal and spare me the burden of chanting and wailing magicians! This incessant mention of the occult is wearying, and I have many serious concerns upon my mind. Take the woman back to the camp and examine her more thoroughly in your tent! Treat her for any injuries that you may find upon her and do not tax her mind with mentions of demons and djinns!"

"Aye, Shakh. I will do all that I can for her." Tushratta paused and then added, "Perhaps it was amiss of me not to inquire as to whether any of the other runaways have been found, but my mind was occupied with concerns for the woman. How goes the hunt?"

"Not so well, physician, I regret to say," Esarhaddon replied sadly. "Certainly most of the women and children were caught soon after they attempted to escape, but others were as fleet as gazelle. According to the reports which I received, there were still fifteen or twenty left uncaught. And then those three foolish wenches who plunged into the Anduin! We do not know whether they survived or not. I have sent men to search for them down river. Perhaps they all drowned; perhaps we will never know. Part of the risks we accept in this business." The slaver shrugged.

"Shakh, hold a moment while I see to the lady's pulse." The physician signaled to the stretcher bearers to halt. "Perhaps a little steadier." Nervously, he moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

"She is in your care, physician, and I trust you to find a cure for her malady." Esarhaddon had decided that it was useless for him to listen to any more of the physician's tedious dialogues. "I will rely upon your advice in her treatment, for while we do not always agree on everything, I trust your abilities as a surgeon and your honor as a man."

"Will you be going back with us to the camp?"

"No, not for the meantime in any event. Master Ganbar and I will be riding upriver to search for any escapees who may be hiding in this vicinity. If there is nothing else to discuss, we will be leaving you." Esarhaddon signaled to Ganbar, his second-in-command, who quickly brought up both his master's mount and his own.

"Shakh, I will consult my parchments and scrolls. Possibly some of the ancient books can direct light on ailments of this type." The physician looked away, cautious of the reaction that his next words might have. "Why do I always have to be so differential?" he wondered. "Does the profession of physician lend itself to the guise of humility? At times I am no better than the most dependent of sycophants! Might as well be out with my advice, whether he likes it or not!" Clearing his throat, he added, "If I feel that a shaman should be called in for consultation, I will recommend one. If at all possible, I will find a reputable shaman - not a fraud like that old fool in Turkûrzgoi!"

The slaver stared at his physician. "Your quest will be in vain, for none exist. All are charlatans, deceivers of the gullible, and unscrupulous purveyors of worthless amulets, trinkets and potions!"

The physician grinned wryly. "Shakh, that is not always true, for in Bablon, they say--"

"They say a lot of things in Bablon! Damn Bablon anyway! No good has ever come from there!" Giving the physician a look of utter disgust, Esarhaddon mounted his horse, touched his heels to her flanks, and rode away at a fast clip, Ganbar hard pressed to keep up with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the ancient city of Babylon was in Middle-earth, which is, of course, not at all surprising, since Middle-earth is our real world, set in an alternative fantasy pre-history.
> 
> "Glory dwelt in that city of Gondolin of the Seven Names, and its ruin was the most dread of all the sacks of cities upon the face of the Earth. Nor Bablon, nor Ninwi, nor the towers of Trui, nor all the many takings of Rûm that is greatest among men, saw such terror as fell that day upon Amon Gwareth in the kindred of the Gnomes; and this is esteemed to be the worst work that Melko has yet thought of in the world." - The Book of Lost Tales II, "The Fall of Gondolin," p. 196-197; see also note on page 203.


	9. Chapter 8 - The Barbarians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

When Tushratta and the party of orcs returned to the slaver's camp that morning, there was a large crowd of prisoners waiting outside the physician's tent. Vigilant guards stood nearby in case the prisoners attempted to escape again. His brow furrowed in concern, Tushratta led the uruks bearing Goldwyn's stretcher through the frightened crowd of women and children.

Rushing up to meet them was the physician's assistant, Aziru, who showed his respect to his superior by a series of quick bows from the waist and a broadly grinning face. A sheen of perspiration on his forehead and balding pate, the small man repeatedly mopped his brow with an embroidered linen handkerchief. Bushy black eyebrows crowned a pair of bright brown eyes which looked out over a bulbous, protruding nose. A thick, wiry mustache flecked with a few traces of gray added dignity to his otherwise bland face. Another Khandian like Tushratta, the middle-aged man was small of stature, his agitated state infusing his tawny skin with a ruddy glow.

"Master Physician," Aziru exclaimed excitedly in Khandian, "it has been like this for hours! Pure confusion and chaos! Behold the look on the women's faces! Pure contempt!"

"How many have you treated so far, Aziru?"

"Very few, Master Tushratta! Most would not let me touch them, and when the orcs brought them into the tent for treatment, only a few women would allow their children to be examined. In those cases, I think it was only because the mothers were desperate, for their children had suffered serious wounds."

"Why did they have such an extreme reaction?" Tushratta asked in bewilderment as his thoughtful, deep brown eyes flicked over the crowd and saw faces which were sullen, scornful, some even hostile.

"By the gods, these Northern people are superstitious! Convinced that I am a sorcerer, the women called me an accursed heathen barbarian whose hands are dipped in the blood of innocents! They said I would take their children and replace them with the spawn of monsters, and then cast all sorts of wicked spells upon them!" Aziru again mopped his damp forehead with his linen handkerchief. Concluding that the cloth was saturated with his sweat, Aziru called for a small slave boy to fetch him a clean one.

"Ignorance is one of the many curses which plague the earth," the physician muttered under his breath. "By the orders of our employer, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya, we must tend to this woman before we can see to the care of the others. I suspect that she is far more important to him than the rest of the whole lot put together." Turning to Fûshfra and his four men, Tushratta ordered in Black Speech, "Take the woman inside, and then go and make yourself useful someplace else. My assistant and I can handle matters here."

"Aye, Shakh. The lads will treat her as though she were made out of glass," the half-breed grunted out his assurance.

Peering down to the woman on the stretcher, Aziru commented, "This woman appears to be close to death! What has befallen this lady to vex her so grievously?"

"Aziru, I will discuss her circumstances later," Tushratta replied impersonally. "Now help Fûshfra and his lads get the woman on the examining table."

"Yes, Master Physician, yes." The small man quickly moved aside to hold the tent curtain open. Silently the physician watched as his assistant directed the orcs in sliding the woman onto the table. Barely waiting until they had departed from the tent, Aziru pinched his nostrils closed with his thumb and forefinger and unleashed a string of invectives in Khandian. "By the snot-encrusted nose of the Magician in the Dark Tower, the stinking sewers of Bablon smell like attar of roses in comparison with these foul beasts!"

"They are gone and none of our concern at present. Now you will attend me in examining this woman." Unwilling to get into an irrelevant discussion, Tushratta shrugged off his assistant's comments.

"Doctor, never have I seen a woman with a face so beautiful!" Aziru exclaimed. "These golden haired Northern women are truly exquisite treasures, their like not seen in our land! Now if her body compares with her lovely features and hair, I will swear she is the Goddess Herself descended from the heavens!" His eyes glittered as they roamed from Goldwyn's face to the tips of her mud-encrusted shoes.

"Aye, and we are physicians, men of integrity," Tushratta returned as he lay his hand on her forehead. "I need not remind you of that." A strange sense of jealousy had begun to coil about the physician's heart, and he resented the attention that his assistant was paying their lovely patient.

"Of course, I know. I was only remarking..."

"Your remarks were inappropriate for a man of medicine. Observe now. Her skin is cold... Take her pulse, Aziru."

"Aye, Master Physician, her skin is like ice," he commented as he held her wrist. "It is steady, but slow!"

The physician stroked his bearded chin as he studied the woman. "It is necessary to remove her clothing now so that we may better examine her."

"Yes, Tushratta, yes!" Licking his dry lips, Aziru's eyes darted back and forth from the woman to the physician. To control the tremor in his hands, Aziru clenched and unclenched his fingers nervously. "By the Gods! I do not know if I trust my thoughts!"

"Aziru, it is not your thoughts which concern me, but rather your actions," the doctor remarked dryly. "Since examining this patient seems to distress you sorely, perhaps I should call one of Esarhaddon's eunuchs to aid me!"

"No, no, my colleague!" The shorter man paled slightly and shook his head in profuse denial. "You know I have been trustworthy all these years!"

"And you will continue to be." Tushratta's attention returned to the woman. "Now help me undress her. Remove her shoes and stockings."

"Certainly, Tushratta. I will attend to this woman as though she were the Goddess Herself, and I were a temple votary in charge of her sacred vestments!" After struggling with himself, Aziru had managed to subdue the trembling in his hands. Still, his eyes gleamed as he reverently slid off Goldwyn's boots and stockings and suppressed the urge to bow before her in subservience and beg to caress each one of her toes with his lips. Gathering the hem of her skirt in his hands, Tushratta eased it up along her legs, giving it a little tug when it reached her hips. Both men drew sharp breaths as their eyes swept over her full, exquisitely feminine body.

"By the Gods! Never have I seen such perfect beauty!" Aziru's gaze was riveted upon the dark blonde brush upon the triangle between the woman's shapely, pale thighs. "If I could put my hand upon her love mound for just a moment, then I would die and go to paradise..." He breathed heavily as a tawny finger skimmed lightly over the tips of the curly hair.

"Damn it, Aziru!" Tushratta snapped. "This examination is difficult enough as it is without your pawing her while she is unconscious!"

"Your forgiveness, Tushratta!" Aziru quickly withdrew his hand and clutched it to his chest. "I was overcome by her beauty!"

"You were overcome by your lusts! By the Gods, man! Have you no control! Your prick is jutting out like a spar on a ship! Now take care of that damn thing before you embarrass yourself further." Tushratta's curt words were cold and disapproving.

"Forgive me, Master Physician," Aziru demurred, his sweaty face flushing a deeper shade of red. Bowing his head in embarrassment, he reached down and discreetly rearranged his raging manhood in his pantaloons.

"Now if you have brought yourself under better discipline, help me strip off the rest of her clothes... and I suggest that it would be beneficial to both your health and peace of mind if you sated your needs more often in the tent of the camp prostitutes!" Tushratta gave his assistant an icy stare.

"I go there often, but it never seems to be enough," Aziru bemoaned. "I am a man of great passions!"

"You need a wife and some concubines," Tushratta shook his head in disgust. "They would keep you occupied and cooled off!"

"Ah, yes, Physician," Aziru took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. "That might help a little."

As Aziru lifted Goldwyn up, grunting with the effort, Tushratta guided her dress the rest of the way, easing it over her head and arms. Slowly the two men returned her limp form back to the table, placing a small pillow under her head and adjusting her body so that she would be resting in a comfortable position.

"Her breasts!" Aziru gasped in awe as he clutched the table for support. "They are like the sweet sun-ripened melons from Khand, the nipples pink like polished rhodochrosite from Harad! What I would give to spend just one night with her! Surely," he turned to face Tushratta, "there would be no harm in just touching one of her rosy nipples."

Tushratta frowned at his assistant. "Do not start that up again! Keep touching the woman improperly and the slaver will have your testicles sliced off and put you to serve as a eunuch in his harem! Only I will conduct this examination, for I am the head physician."

"Physician, I do not know what has come over me, save that the woman's beauty has bewitched me and taken my senses! Women are a temptation to a male, and many a good man has been brought to ruin by their wiles!" Aziru intoned apologetically as he clasped his hands across his middle and dropped his gaze to study the curved points of his shoes.

"There are reasons why some men veil their women, Aziru, and debauched perverts like you are one of them!" Shaking his head, Tushratta began to move his deft fingers over Goldwyn's body, prodding for broken bones and internal injuries. Other than a few ugly bruises, scrapes and scratches on her arms, legs and face, the woman had come through her ordeal virtually unscathed physically. After draping a linen sheet over her form, the physician stared down at the woman, an expression of total bafflement upon his face.

"Could she have ingested some herb or plant which has had this effect upon her?" Aziru offered as he continued to study the points of his shoes.

"There are many things which could have had this effect upon the golden haired woman, Aziru, and we know what they are... poppies, mandrake, valerian, belladonna... any number of substances." The physician stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Since few things are growing now, I do not think that the accidental ingestion of plants is the source of the problem. This malady bears further studying before I can make a sound diagnosis."

"When she was first brought here, you were reluctant to talk in the presence of the orcs," Aziru ventured, looking to the physician. "Perhaps you now will enlighten me as to the circumstances under which she was found? Perhaps together with our combined knowledge, we will solve this mystery and determine some cure."

Tushratta sighed. "Aziru, do not make anything more out of this than what is there... She was found unconscious in an abandoned tomb."

"Tushratta! You should have informed me of this before!" Eager to redeem himself in the eyes of his master, Aziru postulated excitedly as he gestured wildly with his hands, "There is our answer! The woman chanced upon one of the Edimmu in the crypt and angered it! These wandering spirits are extremely vindictive towards the living! If a man incurs their wrath, these phantoms have the power to curse him with terrible sicknesses!"

"Aziru, I am well acquainted with the supposed powers of the Edimmu. However, we have no proof that the woman has been afflicted by them." Even as he said these words, Tushratta recalled the state in which he had found the woman, her thighs spread wide, her arms reaching as though to clasp a lover. Though he did not want to admit it, Aziru was putting his own thoughts into words.

"Master, if you will allow me to continue..." Aziru's eyes were pleading as he looked at the physician.

"Go on, Aziru," Tushratta nodded. "I will listen to your theories. Whether I accept them or not is another matter."

Aziru's voice lowered, and he spoke in hushed tones. "The Edimmu can inflict people with a pox that covers their victims' bodies in running lesions; curse them with ulcerous sores that will not heal and penetrate so deeply into their bones that they are severed; torment them with black canker of the privy parts that will waste away the procreative organs; and afflict them with other evil maladies! Some say that they can even possess the living and cause them to behave as though mad! They are horrible, horrible!"

Out of wind after his quick rush of words, Aziru paused to regain his breath before continuing. "The greatest among all the spiritual healers recommend first bleeding of the sufferer. Then fire cups are to be applied to the back and shoulders, with wet compresses bound about the wounds to aid their healing." He closed his eyes, shuddering at the thought of the wicked spirits. "The Edimmu are stubborn and it takes much effort to drive them away. Dishes of food must be set out to pacify them and cause them to forsake the victim. Censers of aromatic incense must constantly be burning, for the evil spirits cannot abide the wholesome zephyrs. Prayers and chants must be offered to the gods so that they might have mercy and speed the flight of the malevolent presences from the victim's body. All this must be done if this woman is to be cured of her malady!" His face animated, his voice fervent, Aziru was hopeful that the master physician was as impressed with his knowledge as Aziru himself was.

"Aziru," Tushratta replied calmly, "you are becoming agitated. We have no reason to believe that such treatment is necessary... yet." He wanted to find a logical explanation for the woman's sickness, for he feared the alternative.

"Aye, Master Physician, but we have every indication that the woman has been possessed by a dark spirit, and such treatment is necessary in her case." Bowing his head humbly, Aziru clasped his hands together and looked to Tushratta. "Of course, you are the master physician here, and I defer to your superior knowledge."

"Aziru, you have already arrived at a treatment before we are even certain of the malady!" Tushratta stared at the table where Goldwyn lay, the sumptuous hills of her breasts clearly visible through the thin sheet. "Your assumption that the woman has been afflicted by some manifestation of a preternatural presence is unfounded. Your theories are based upon circumstantial evidence, not upon calm, reasoned observations." The physician watched as Goldwyn's bosom rose and fell with her breathing, and a sigh escaped his lips.

Looking back to Aziru, Tushratta spoke more rapidly. "The methods that you have mentioned can be quite weakening upon the body. When the woman awakens from her stupor, what a shock it will be to her mind when she discovers that two doctors whom she considers heathens have not only beheld her nakedness, but have inflicted strange treatments upon her body! Even if such remedies would be deemed necessary, I am not qualified to administer them and neither are you! Our field is the physical, not the spiritual! Now I am taking her to my cot and there she will rest. See about her occasionally, because, from the size of the crowd outside, I shall be occupied for quite a while!"

Staring down at Goldwyn, Tushratta ran a finger over the bow of her silent, cold lips, and the urge came over him to bend down and taste her sweetness. "Such a beauty," he thought fondly. Picking up the woman in his arms, he carried her through the open curtain between the two chambers of the tent. Placing her upon his cot, he covered her limp form with a quilt and glanced down at her for a moment. With a sense of deep regret, he braced himself inwardly for the challenge of dealing with the hatred and prejudice of her simple, barbaric people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edimmu - In Sumerian mythology, the Edimmu were ghosts or wandering spirits. Vengeful and vindictive towards the living, they could possess people. They could sometimes be appeased by offering them a funeral repast.


	10. Chapter 9 - How the Ignorant Grope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Never had the Southern slavers experienced a servile mutiny of such a magnitude as that of the rebellion of the Rohirric women. Although the slavers of the House of Huzziya were loath to admit it even to each other, they were shaken by its ramifications. Those Gondorian women and children who had been captured in the early days of the war had proved to be far more docile than the wild barbarian people of the North. The Rohirric men were fierce fighters, many preferring death to capture, and some of their women were no less savage than their men.

Accustomed to the passivity and subservience so prized in the women of their own land, the dignified Khandian doctors were ill fitted to deal with such raw passion. Since Tushratta and Aziru possessed little experience in dealing with so many patients who were both angry and injured, each man was uncertain as to the best way of handling the unique situation. Obviously, in addition to medical skills, both diplomacy and tact were needed.

Tushratta and Aziru surveyed the three dark-skinned slave boys who stood respectfully at attention, their heads bowed and their hands folded in front of them. "Boys, you must be cautious in dealing with these women, for a word taken wrong might turn them into lionesses. I had considered having the guards bind each woman hand and foot when she was brought into this tent, but I have decided that would only contribute to their state of agitation. We will use severe measures only if kindness fails." Tushratta waited for each boy to nod his acknowledgement before he went on with his instructions.

"You," he motioned to one of the boys, "will be responsible for filling the vessels with fresh water and bearing away the basins of impure water after surgery. And you," he turned to another, "will aid my assistant and take him the instruments and other things that we will need. And you, Hibiz," he looked to the third boy, "besides doing as we might direct you, you will keep a vigil upon the ailing woman in my chambers, visiting her twice every hour. If necessary, the whole group of you might be called upon to hold down a patient who struggles and refuses to drink the calming potions. Now prostrate yourselves in reverence as the Chief Assistant and I meditate and invoke the power and advice of the healing goddesses."

"Master Physician, to hear is to obey!" The three boys cheerfully echoed almost in unison as they bowed their way back to one of the tent walls and then sank prostrate upon the floor. Tushratta and Aziru sat cross-legged on the cushions which lay on the carpet. Bowing their heads, their lips moving silently, the physician and his assistant spent some minutes in contemplation before arising.

"Ho! Hibiz, fetch a bottle of wine and goblets for the worthy Chief Assistant Aziru and myself and place them on the small bench beside my examining table," Tushratta commanded the boy. "The wine always proves useful in steadying my hand... When all is in readiness, open the tent and allow the patients admittance. We will see what misfortune has brought to us today."

"Afflictions in abundance... such a great throng of the injured!" Aziru remarked sadly as he put an eye up to the crack between the tent flaps and peeked through the opening. "And some are quite angry!"

"Perhaps I should go out and try to calm them," Tushratta mused out loud as he thoughtfully stroked his dark, wiry beard.

"Master Physician, perhaps you should!" Aziru bobbed his head up and down in agreement, the light from the lamps gleaming off his oiled, balding pate. "The women's voices buzz as viciously as bees whose hive has been disrupted!"

Moving past Aziru, Tushratta drew back the tent flap. He found that while he had been examining Goldwyn, the guards had brought more patients. A quick assessment revealed that most of the women and children had suffered only minor injuries. Some of the prisoners eyed the physician through blackened eyes, their lips swollen and their faces cut and bruised. Although some favored their arms, holding them at unnatural angles, at least there seemed to be only one broken leg, that of a small boy who lay crying on the ground.

Smiling politely, Tushratta bowed before addressing the crowd in his heavily accented Common Speech. "In Khand, my own country, I am called Tushratta, and I am a physician. This man beside me is Aziru, the Chief Assistant, and he will aid me in treating you." The group looked at the two Khandians dubiously. Aziru placed one of the physician's supply chests on the ground in front of him, and at a nod from Tushratta, he opened the lid. "Here you will see jars and phials of salves, unguents, boluses, various potions used in healing, and rolls of cloth for bandages," the physician explained. "Do you wish to look inside to assure yourselves that all is as I have related?"

The captives murmured and shook their heads. Glaring at the two doctors, a sour-faced older woman spat out, "Keep that devil's box of evil away from me! It is cursed with the most malignant of hexes and charms!" Square-jawed, her nose straight and pinched, her lips thin and pale, the woman was narrow of shoulder and broad of beam. Nature had created her almost bereft of neck, and her head seemed to be sprouting from her shoulders. A black kerchief tied about her thin, graying hair did little to help her appearance, and the shabby brown grease-stained dress which she wore made her look all the more dowdy. A defiant look upon her wide, scowling face, she dared the two doctors to challenge her words, her defiant stance making her resemble a belligerent black and brown broody hen with her feathers puffed out to make herself appear larger.

Sighing, Tushratta enunciated slowly in his heavy accent, "Grandmother, with all courtesy accorded to you because of your age, if I really were a sorcerer, I certainly would consider turning that adder's tongue of yours into a stone so it would be silent!" He congratulated himself that he possessed the good sense not to display the case that contained his surgeon's tools - the sight of saws, knives, drills, tweezers, needles, clamps and various other instruments would only have worked these women up into a hysterical frenzy.

"Son of a dog!" the woman shrieked. "May Béma trample you under his horse's hooves on his midnight ride! You and your wicked assistant will pay for your crimes someday!" The drab matron shook her fist at him as several other women encouraged her by muttering similar curses under their breath and spitting to the side in contempt.

"Good ladies," Tushratta had quickly regained his usual calm demeanor after his temporary agitation, "though you see me as an enemy, you are mistaken. I mean you no harm - only good."

"Good?" the woman let out another string of invectives. "There was no good in your invasion of the Mark!"

"Lady, I am not - nor have I ever been in all my life - a soldier," Tushratta explained patiently. "The only reason that I own a sword is for my own protection, and never have I had cause to raise it. What has happened has happened, but I bear no blame for any of it. I am a doctor, and my life is dedicated to healing."

"Well, I do not know so much about that. You are one of the enemy's sorcerers, and you do as much evil as your land's accursed soldiers, maybe more with all your spells and enchantments!" the woman hissed.

"I have already related to you that I am a physician, not a sorcerer! This whole discussion is the height of absurdity, and now it is at an end! In spite of your age, Madame, if you continue with it, I will call the guards to restrain you!" Tushratta slammed the medical box shut, an uncommon display of temper for the usually dispassionate physician.

With a great "humph," the indignant woman concluded that perhaps it would be to her best advantage to be silent. A great murmuring went up among the crowd, but none of the women dared contend with the physician after that stern warning.

Touching an amulet that hung around his neck, Aziru whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Master, behold the gleaming fire of anger in the malevolent pale eyes of the women! The wise say that such eyes are full of wickedness! At least none of them have weapons! May the Gods of Bablon protect us if they were armed!" Once again, the surgeon's assistant made the sign against evil behind his back, as he had done several times whilst listening to the exchange between the master physician and the dour matron.

"Be still, Aziru," Tushratta whispered to the fretful man beside him. "You spout superstitious nonsense! They are only women, and they are frightened."

"Only women?" Aziru gasped in dismay as he secretly warded off evil with the apotropaic sign. "Some of them are veritable amazons, large, robust and endowed with great strength. I do not doubt that several of them could join together and flatten me! Some are taller than I! When you are as small as I am, you have to worry!"

Ignoring his assistant's remarks, Tushratta turned back to the women and after managing a benign, dignified expression once more, he resumed speaking to them in what he considered a calm, comforting manner. "I turn away none who come to me. Do not worry. All will be well." Gesturing to a nervous Aziru at his side, he continued, "You will be pleased to know that my assistant speaks far better Common than I. He can help with any problems of translation."

Hopeful that he had used the right words in the difficult Common, Tushratta gave the crowd another placid smile. "A physician in his own right, the Chief Assistant will first ascertain the extent of your injuries. Those who are hurt the least will form a line to the right. Those with more serious injuries will form to the left. If there is any confusion, the guards who have so kindly brought you here will settle the matter. Now, if you will excuse me, I go now to my tent to await the first patient."

Tushratta knew that none of what he had said to them made any difference; the women were as hostile and suspicious as ever. Disconcerted by the women's continuing animosity, the flustered physician fumbled in his choice of parting words. "And... It was very nice talking with you very lovely and pleasant ladies." A slight titter rippled over the crowd, and the doctor could not determine whether the women were genuinely amused or if they were simply mocking him. Flushing in embarrassment, the reserved physician bowed quickly and turned to leave.

"Tush-rat-ta," a tall young blonde woman, sweet-faced and gentle of manner, carefully pronounced his name, "my son's leg is injured... he cannot bear weight upon it! I ask you to treat him!"

Turning around to face the woman, Tushratta responded, "Probably only a sprain, good lady. He will be attended to as soon as we have found the cause of his pain." Unable to resist a bit of sarcasm, he added, "Are you, most earnest lady, sure that you trust this wretched heathen doctor enough to allow him to treat your son?"

"I do not care what you are, healer! Just help my little boy!" What did it matter that he was a man of the enemy! He at least seemed a kind man, and he had promised to help her son. All she had left in the world was her child, and the last of her reservations crumbled as the little boy whimpered and clung to her skirt.

"Wait in line then, gracious lady. When I can, I will see to your son." A slight smile of satisfaction flickered over Tushratta's face as he walked away and entered his tent.

***

Tushratta's first patient was a small, frightened girl who held her mother's hand tightly. The woman looked uncertainly about the tent as though she expected to see a circle of wizards cackling around a sacrificial victim.

"Madame, good day," Tushratta encouraged jovially. "Bring the child over here and help her upon the table."

"Yes, healer," she replied hesitantly as she lifted the girl onto the table.

"What is your name, little girl?" the physician asked as he removed the blood-drenched makeshift bandage that her mother had tied about the wound. When he saw the nasty rent in the child's right forearm, Tushratta wondered how such a ghastly injury could have been inflicted, unless it were the product of orc-work. He would not put anything past those brutes who took fiendish glee in torturing other living beings, even their own kind. "Savages," he thought with disgust. Quietly, one of the servant boys brought a basin of water and cloths.

"You are hurting me," the girl reproached Tushratta angrily as he cleaned the wound.

"Forgive me." His voice was apologetic, his expressive brown eyes tender. "I am trying not to hurt you any more than is necessary, but I must remove the dirt from your arm."

"Tell him your name, child," her mother urged her gently.

"Mother, I am afraid of the bad man!" Hunig twisted her head around to look at her mother. "He will put a curse upon my arm and cause it to fall off!" She spoke in Rohirric as she related her fears to her mother.

"No, Hunig," Leofgifu gave her a gentle, reassuring smile, "he will do no such thing! Now be a sensible girl and let the doctor treat you!" Moving back slightly to give them room, Leofgifu still kept a watchful eye upon the doctor and his assistant.

The child looked skeptically to Tushratta. "My name is Athelwyn, but I am called Hunig," the little girl pronounced solemnly in broken Common Speech.

The injury was a deep one, and even though it must have bled profusely, still some dirt had managed to contaminate the gash. Tushratta's full attention was required to remove all of the particles so that mortification would not set in. Placing the bloodied cloth in the bowl held by a servant, the physician turned to Leofgifu. "This wound is deep and must be stitched. How did your daughter receive it?"

"Last night, during all the tumult and confusion when-- when--" How could she tell him that her nieces had been among those who had escaped the night before? If this Eastern doctor knew about Elfhild and Elffled, would he become angry and refuse to treat Hunig? Or even worse - would he hurt the child out of a perverse desire for retribution?

Seeing the woman's discomfort, the physician spoke the words she would not say. "--When some of your people tried to escape. And you and your daughter, of course, made the attempt to regain your freedom. I understand, Madame. You do not need to apologize. It is not uncommon for slaves to attempt to escape."

"No," Leofgifu replied, embarrassed. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Though I would give anything to be back in my own land, I knew that we would only borrow grief to attempt such an ill-conceived plan. However, Hunig lost her head and panicked when the others started running. She tripped and fell over her own feet and landed upon a sharp stone."

"Then it was not the orcs who hurt your little child?" Aziru asked in mild surprise.

"No, not this time," Leofgifu replied warily.

"However she received it," the physician replied sympathetically, "the wound must be sutured. Madame, will you please tell your child that I do not wish to hurt her, but only to aid her healing?"

"Mother, what does he want to do to me?" Hunig asked desperately. She knew the meanings of some of the words which were exchanged between the physician and her mother, but she was uncertain if she understood all of them correctly.

Leofgifu looked into her daughter's blue eyes and stroked her uninjured hand. "Your arm needs to be stitched, Hunig. This will hurt but it is the only way to help your arm to heal properly."

"No!" Hunig cried and began to weep. Murmuring soft words of comfort, Leofgifu drew the sobbing child to her bosom.

"Madame, I want your daughter to drink a glass of hot, soothing tea. The flavor will be unfamiliar to her, but it should not be unpleasant. She will soon fall into a relaxed state and feel little of the sting when the wound is repaired. Will you explain this to her?"

Leofgifu turned to the physician, her eyes probing his for reassurance, wanting to trust him. These people seemed so different from the Rohirrim, so alien, dark and suspicious looking. He came from a far away land, and she did not even know where it was. She could read nothing in his expression, save for what she took as compassion. She would accept that. There was no other choice. She would trust this mild-mannered man of the East.

"Healer, do what you must do to save my daughter's arm!"

Busying himself, the physician's assistant soon had a pan of water roiling upon the brass brazier in the center of the tent. Green tea, dried orange peal, sugar and paste of poppies were steeped in a pot of boiling water. Smiling, Aziru poured the contents into a small glass and stirred the liquid around with a spoon.

"If you drink this, little Northern princess whose face rivals the glow of the full moon, I shall dance for you and make you laugh. Please, for me." Aziru went down upon one knee, contorted his face into a comical expression, and offered the glass to Hunig. A small, shy smile appeared at the corners of the girl's mouth.

"Hunig, please drink it," her mother encouraged her. "He says it will keep the pain away."

"All right, Mother. I will drink it because he says such amusing things, and I would like to see him dance." As Hunig brought the glass to her lips and tasted the liquid, a quizzical expression appeared upon her face, and then she smiled in approval. "It tastes good, like nothing I have ever had before!"

From his robe, Aziru drew a small reed pipe, and, smiling, he put the instrument up to his mouth and cajoled it into a melody strange to Hunig's ears. Slowly at first, he spun around the room in circles, a swirling, turning dance. Taking his lips from his flute, faster and faster he gyrated until Hunig begin to feel dizzy. As he twirled, he began to chant in his own language, a strangely soothing sound, punctuated occasionally by a loud exhalation of breath. A euphoric expression came over his face as he began to rotate in tighter and tighter circles, his hands held straight out at his sides, his grunts coming in unison. As the opium filled tea began to have its effect upon Hunig, she found herself floating across the carpeted floor of the tent and dancing alongside the dark little man.

"Mother, I am dancing among the clouds," Hunig sighed as her eyes began to roll back in her head. The physician caught her as her body sagged backwards upon the table.

"Dance," she sighed languorously, speaking half in Rohirric, half in Common Speech, "dance... O strange man of the East, hold me between the heaven and the earth, and, forgetting all sorrows, we will dance together."

Smiling slightly, Tushratta turned to Leofgifu. "Lady, your daughter sleeps peacefully now, and so I will begin my work."

Accepting a needle from the tray held by one of the slave boys, Aziru used wooden handled tweezers to grasp it as he purified the metal in the flame. After threading the needle with catgut, he handed it to the physician. Tushratta bent over his work, repairing the deeper internal breach with the catgut. Next, taking a needle threaded with the silk, he joined the two severed sections of flesh together with small, tidy stitches and tied them off.

Opening a small jar on the tray, the physician dipped his fingers into a creamy substance and spread it over the wound. After winding a strip of linen around Hunig's arm, Tushratta tore the end of the strip, wrapping it back over the bandage and then tying the ends in a knot. Bending down, the physician waited while Hibiz wiped his forehead with a soothing cloth dipped in rosewater and then washed his hands in the bowl. After the slave boy had dried the doctor's hands on a towel, Tushratta commanded, "Boys, dump out the evil water and fetch some fresh. We will need much water and cloths before the day is over."

Tushratta turned back to Leofgifu. "Now, Madame, I suggest you have a draught of wine to steady your nerves. My assistant will carry your daughter to one of the sleeping mats at the side of the tent. She will slumber for quite some time yet, perhaps for a few hours. You can wait here with her until she awakens, or if you wish, I will have her carried back to the camp. Before you leave, you will be given more salve and bandaging material. You are to remove the bandages when they are soiled, clean the wound carefully, apply salve and bind up the wound with fresh dressing. If, when you change her dressing later, the wound has grown angry and inflamed, bring her back to me."

"Thank you, sir." First looking into his eyes for permission, she took his hand and kissed it in gratitude, stricken with awe that one of the enemy could be so kind. "I will accept your offer of wine if you would be so gracious. I will wait here with my daughter until she awakes."

"As you wish, Madame," Tushratta replied pleasantly as the servant boy poured goblets of wine.

As he drank, the physician pondered these perplexing fair-skinned, blonde barbarians. "This poor ignorant woman does not quite know what to think of us. Probably few of her people have ever beheld a doctor before, and they perceive my medical chest as a repository of dark and evil potions! These primitive people must think that all of the people of my land are workers of dark sorcery, who are eager to afflict them all with the evil eye! These poor, unfortunate wretches are birthed with only the aid of ignorant midwives and would think that calling a physician was some strange new fancy. No doubt they die with nothing more than a draught of ale to ease their death struggles. How ignorant and backward they are, and they think that I am a barbarian!"

How insulting it was to be reviled by these backward people! Were the two years that he had spent studying under the village doctor for naught! And then when he had learned all that he could from that physician, Tushratta had gone to Bablon and spent several years studying medicine under the most famous physician in the land. Truly, he was affronted at the treatment that he had received from the Rohirric women! All learned and intelligent people surely knew that the most advanced medicine in all of Middle-earth was developed in the East!

"Barbarians," he muttered under his breath as he took another drink of wine to soothe the pain of rejection. Then he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.


	11. Chapter 10 - A Cup of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

The weather that afternoon had turned hot and muggy. Even though the tent flaps were tied back, the weak breeze which found its way inside could do little to drive away the overpowering odors of sweat, urine, vomit, excrement and blood. Combining with all these unpleasant smells were the pungent aromas of animal fat, dried flower petals, herbs, incense and strong antiseptics. There were few friendly faces amongst the patients, and the physicians had difficulty containing their tempers as they were met with muttered curses, glares, and signs to ward away evil.

"My Masters will be happy to learn that there is only one more patient who awaits their attention," announced Hibiz after returning from talking with a guard at the entryway of the tent.

"And what is the nature of the injury?" Tushratta inquired, not looking up from a scroll on the table before him. A reed pen poised in his right hand, the man looked down at the elegant, flowing script which he had just inscribed upon the parchment.

"Master, the boy's mother states that one of his fingers is broken," Hibiz replied as he kept his dark brown eyes respectfully averted.

An absentminded expression upon his face, the physician glanced at the boy. "Send in the lad and his mother."

"Master, a word brings instant obedience!" Hibiz bowed his way to the entry of the tent.

A tall, pinch-faced woman wearing a cream-colored kerchief about her dirty blonde hair, a drab green dress upon her thin body, and a tattered gray shawl clutched about her broad, bony shoulders walked into the chamber. At her side was a gangling boy of about eight summers, whom she held by the hand. He had outgrown his shabby brown tunic, and his stained breeches were too short by at least three inches. A sullen look on his face, he stared at his surroundings with tear-swollen eyes. "Mother, I am afraid," he mumbled over and over again in Rohirric as he fidgeted restlessly.

"Hush, son, do not let the heathens know of your fear! They will use it against you, mark my words!"

"What will they do, Mother?" the boy asked warily, his eyes wide, his mouth gaping.

"They will steal your soul and put it in the body of a dead person!" she whispered.

Terrified more by his mother's words than of the heathen doctor, the boy cried louder. He refused to budge, dug in his heels and howled like an abandoned puppy. Clenching his hand in a vise-like grip, the woman dragged him across the carpeted floor. "Mother, save me! The evil men are looking at me!"

"There, you have gone and done it, blubbering like that and making a scene! Now be quiet!" his mother angrily rebuked him.

Rising to their feet, Tushratta and Aziru nodded to the pair. When he spoke in his richly accented Khandian, the physician's voice was calm and cool. "Madame, if you will just bring your son over here and seat him on this stool, we should soon have his injury diagnosed and tended."

"Mother, what did he say?" the boy asked frantically, having difficulty understanding the Khandian's pronunciation of Common.

"He said that if you do not behave yourself, he will turn you into a drop of water, put you in a pot, and boil you until there is nothing left. And he means it!"

"I will behave! You can be sure of that!" the boy whimpered as he sat down on the stool.

"What is your name, boy, and where are you injured?" Tushratta asked as he looked into the boy's tear-swollen blue eyes.

"Gyrth." The boy rubbed the forefinger of his uninjured hand under his dripping nose, flipping the moisture to the side with a snap of his wrist "My finger, sir," he replied tearfully.

"Gyrth, let me see your finger."

"Mother, should I?" Gyrth whined as he looked up at his mother for direction. Her mouth set in a grim line, she nodded her approval. "Here, sir," he replied, extending his hand and turning his head away.

During the examination, the boy kicked the doctor in the shin, but was rewarded by a sound cuff from his mother. His dispassionate demeanor unruffled by the pain, Tushratta looked to his assistants and ordered, "Hibiz, make more tea. Aziru, prepare the splints and dressings." Turning back to the mother, he informed her, "Madame, your son's finger is broken. It must be set so that it will grow back sound and straight. My slave boy is preparing a draught that will take away the pain."

"You mean intensify it," the woman retorted suspiciously. "No potion made by any ally of the Dark Land could be of any good."

"Madame, how could you stand there and in all honesty say such a thing? Surely you have witnessed your own people who have received treatment in this tent! Truly you could not say that they were the worse for having been here!" After a day of hearing such accusations, Tushratta's patience was close to running its course.

"They were all enchanted," the woman rejoined, adamant in her illogic.

"Surely, Madame, you must give us credit for possessing some degree of intelligence and ability. After all, the ancestors of the people of Khand invented the wheel; the calendar; developed the principles of irrigation; arithmetic and geometry; and bitumen waterproofing... even beer. " The physician tapped his fingers together. "Their advancements are endless, and the only reason why you do not know about these accomplishments is because your ancestors left the East before civilization really began. The only reason that the men of the West are not complete savages, running through the forests like wild beasts, is because the elves taught them what they never learned in the East." Tushratta folded his arms across his chest and stared calmly into the woman's eyes. Speechless, she could no longer meet his gaze and dropped her eyes towards the floor.

"Master Physician, the tea." Hibiz presented the doctor with a tray holding a glass of hot tea.

"Thank you, Hibiz." Looking into Gyrth's face, the physician cautioned him to be careful when lifting the glass of tea, for the liquid was very hot. Suspicious when he first tasted the tea, the boy soon discovered that the liquid was very sweet, and he drank it all and then asked for more. As the doctors waited for the potion to take effect, Aziru entertained the boy with a set of small camel-hide puppets and told the story of two inmates in an insane asylum who persuaded the doctor that he was the one who was really mad.

Although he fought sleep, Gyrth began to doze off, for the drug used in the tea was a potent one. When the boy was sound asleep, Aziru and Hibiz held and steadied him as the physician set, splinted and bandaged his finger. Turning to the woman, Tushratta began, "Madame, I will tell you this now. While your son is still in a lethargic state, I intend to lance the reeking carbuncle upon his neck. It covers an area as big as my thumb and is as red as the stone which shares its name! You should have told me this before and not attempted to conceal it from me."

Horrified, the woman stared at him. "I will not allow you to use a knife on my son!"

Signing to the two guards at the entryway, Tushratta summoned them inside. Soon two burly green-clad guardsmen stood before him and saluted. "Bring a stool, Hibiz," the physician ordered. "The lady needs to sit down for a while."

"What are you going to do!" The woman was wild-eyed as the guards approached her.

"Give you something to make you see the most fantastic visions that you have ever experienced in your life. You will think you are in paradise." Tushratta smiled.

"Keep your hands off me!" The outraged woman looked from one guard to the other as they gripped her by the arms and half dragged, half carried her to the stool. Shoving her down upon it, they pulled her arms behind her back and held them securely. Aziru brought a glass of cool tea up to her lips. "No!" she shrieked. "I will not drink your foul devil's brew! You are trying to poison me!"

"I think you will, Madame," Aziru chuckled as he forced the rim of the glass against her lips. Holding her jaw in a firm grip, he applied pressure to the joints to force her teeth apart. Quickly, his hand clamped her mouth shut. As she began to choke on the liquid, Hibiz pinched her nostrils closed, forcing her to drink or strangle. "You will feel better soon," Aziru smiled smugly.

The men waited until the poppy tea had woven its peaceful spell over the quarrelsome woman. "Now at last she is quiet! Carry her to one of the reed sleeping mats," Tushratta directed as he took the small sharp fire-cleansed knife from Hibiz' hand. As Aziru and Hibiz steadied the boy in the chair, Tushratta sliced deftly across the putrid swelling. Holding his breath, he opened the twin foul-smelling, pus-laden sores.

"Oh, Master!" an ashen faced Hibiz moaned as he clenched his stomach. "I must go outside, for I am ill!"

Tushratta nodded to the groaning boy, who quickly dashed from the tent, holding his stomach. "He will get accustomed to it," the physician assured his chief assistant.

A determined expression on his face, Aziru bore down with his thumbs around the base of the sore, squeezing out the corruption into a basin. "Aye," he agreed as he cleaned the last of the infection from the wound and dropped the bloody rag into the bowl. "The ghastly stench once bothered me, but it has been many years since I lost a meal over it."

"After all the bloody work today, I could use a bath as quickly as possible," Tushratta told them as he lathered his hands in the basin of water held by one of the slave boys. "The patient and his mother will not be awake for some time."

 

***

Tushratta's clothing was saturated with bloodstains and corruption from his patients' wounds and the grime accumulated over the night spent on the hunt. His body felt as sweaty and filthy as that of a slave who had labored from dawn to dusk clearing the silt from one of the irrigation ditches which spread out from the Great River of Khand. Later, he would have the slave boys bring a tub and fill it with hot rosewater. A happy smile came over his face as he thought of soaking in a deliciously long and luxuriant bath, but for the time he would be content to refresh himself with pouring a jug of water over his head and body.

After slipping out of his soft leather slippers, he undid his corded belt, pulled his tunic and shirt over his head and stepped out of his pantaloons. Tossing his soiled garments to a basket of dirty laundry in the corner of the tent, he turned to a brightly painted pottery container of water on a small table. Lifting the vessel up, he let the cooling water stream over his head, neck, back and shoulders and run down his lean, muscular body in torrents.

Refreshed after ridding his clean-shaven body of most of the sweat, grime and unpleasant odor, he smiled as he dried himself. Slipping on a light tan caftan, he placed his slippers back upon his feet. The time had come to see to the mysterious sleeping lady. Perhaps she would be awake at last and he could talk with her. Placing a goblet, wine bottle, half a loaf of flat bread, cheese, and dried figs upon a platter, he stepped through the curtain that divided the tent and placed the tray on the low table in front of his couch.

He found that the woman still slumbered on his bed, the coverlet draped over her undisturbed. Frowning, he walked to one of his chests and searched until he came upon a thick, worn leather bound volume. He thumbed through the tome until he found a chapter entitled "On the Nature of Those Who Are Afflicted With Evil Spirits." Returning, he sat down cross-legged in front of the low table and positioned a pillow behind his back. Sipping from his goblet of wine, he moved his finger down the page until he came to a paragraph of interest and read avidly.

"Divers and many are these spirits which may torment the living. Those who wish to free the victims of these unclean beings must first make themselves ready by cleansing their bodies with water that has been blessed by the high priest. Submitting himself to the scrutiny of the gods, the ashipu must stand naked and humble in the closed chamber of purification. Then as the vapors of incenses devoted to the great Mardu and all the holy divinities of Bablon waft around him, he will chant the special prayers and invocations to the Gods and Goddesses. Thus purified and prepared for the ordeal he will face, he will then drink the draught of sauma, thus opening his soul and senses to the direct influence of the gods. Be cautioned... Only after these rituals have been performed is the ashipu prepared to offer himself up to meditation and supplication so that he may..."

His reading was interrupted by Aziru, who had slid quietly into the chamber. "Master Physician, I did not mean to disturb your reading, but the Shakh has just returned. He is in a very great haste to see the woman. He awaits now in the outer chamber."

"Then show him in, Aziru." Muttering to himself, Tushratta put the book and goblet down upon the table and rose to his feet. For some reason which he could not quite explain, the physician felt irritated at the slaver's unexpected arrival.

"It is not necessary to show me in," the slaver announced as he pushed his way through the curtains. Striding past Aziru, who was attempting to bow, the slaver walked over to the couch and looked down at Goldwyn.

"The woman is still sleeping, I see." An accusatory expression upon his face, the slaver looked angry enough to strike Tushratta. "What have you done to her? Filled her full of hashish and poppies? That is all you ever do, is it not, Physician?"

Aziru glanced anxiously at the physician, whose tawny skin was flushed ruddy with anger. A mild mannered man by nature, Tushratta's temper had been rankled by the slavers assertions, but he determined not to allow his agitation to show through his calm, professional exterior.

"Shakh Esarhaddon," the physician spoke with quiet dignity, "though her sleep is unnatural, it was not induced by any narcotics. You offend my integrity by making a hasty judgment before even asking me what treatment I have prescribed."

The slaver's stormy brown eyes probed those of the physician, but then his hard gaze softened and his body relaxed. "Forgive me, Tushratta. I spoke out of turn. The night and day have been long ones, and I am damn tired."

"No umbrage is taken, Shakh," Tushratta assured him, his voice calm. "The woman has been as you see her now since she was first found in the tomb. My suggestion is that we allow her to sleep. If we attempt to awaken her from such an unnatural slumber, we could possibly inflict further harm upon her. Let us leave her for a while and go to the outer chamber where we can discuss this matter over wine. The boy Hibiz will be attending to her, and should she awaken, he will quickly report."

Nodding his reluctant ascent, the slaver followed his physician to the outer chamber. The two slave boys soon had spread platters of flat bread, hard cheeses, dried meats, olives and pickles in brine, and goblets of heady Khandian wine before them. His face sullen, the shakh began eating his food silently.

"Shakh, what is the news of the escaped slaves?"

"Not good," Esarhaddon replied dourly as he broke a piece of the thin, yellow flatbread in two. "We have lost at least a day's time because of this damned business. Time lost is money lost." He chewed the bread vengefully, as though he had a grudge against the wheat which went in it. "And, yes, I have been informed already of the injuries incurred in last night's misadventure."

"Since arriving back at the camp, I have heard nothing except rumors about the women who are reputed to have leapt into the Anduin; it is thought they drowned. What is the truth of it?" Tushratta inquired.

"The orcs reported seeing three of the fools leaping into the river and disappearing under the current. Either they have evaded capture and escaped or they have drowned. My brother and I are in this business to make money, but when we lose slaves to happenstance or disease, the possibilities of showing a profit are greatly lessened." Esarhaddon set his goblet on the table. "More wine, boy! My throat is parched from the long trip!"

His heavy brows scowling, the slaver continued, "The time to be gentle with them is past! I have ordered that henceforth the women are to be kept chained in their coffles at night. If there is any hint of mutiny, the guilty ones will feel the switches laid smartly upon their white-skinned backs and buttocks." He could sense Tushratta's silent disapproval of such measures, and turned his anger against him. "Damn it, Tushratta, you know I am not a harsh man, but my reputation - and possibly even the future of our business establishment - is in peril if we allow slave rebellions to go unpunished!"

Tushratta studied a dry date before placing it into his mouth and made no comment as he chewed reflectively. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It is unfortunate that sometimes strict measures must be brought into play." Changing the subject, he asked, "Besides the three who are feared drowned, how many of the slaves remain uncaptured?" He brushed a linen napkin over the few crumbs that clung to his mustache and beard and turned to his wine.

"Besides the three, there are seven others who disappeared, but we will find them if they still live. My best trackers are out searching for the runaways. Though orcs are nothing but animals, the brutes have good noses on them!" The slaver looked down into his goblet and then took a stout drink of wine.

"Their abilities are deservedly renowned," Tushratta added disinterestedly, brushing a fly off the sleeve of his caftan.

"By the sweating, reeking, hairy groin of the Dark Wizard!" Esarhaddon swore, shaking his head. "You know that I detest employing such monsters! Dogs are just as effective and their bodies do not have the reek of orcs! Hounds are certainly less trouble!"

"One of the shortcomings of the system, but one under which we must labor," the physician pointed out dryly.

"A system that helps my brother and me become richer," the slaver replied as he cleansed his hands in a bowl of water brought to him by the ever smiling Hibiz.

"What are your plans now, Esarhaddon?" Tushratta asked. "Will you be going back to the hunt tonight?"

"I might get roaring drunk and forget my sorrows for a while," the slaver chuckled as he held his fingers out for the servant to dry. "My plans call for relaxing in a hot bath and then spending the remainder of the night engaged in love-sport between the soft, warm thighs of a lustful wench. If my men have not yet recaptured the runaways by morning, I will be joining my three lieutenants in the chase. The orcs will serve as our hounds." He laughed at his own sarcastic jab at the orcs, eliciting a polite nod from Tushratta and a sardonic grin from Aziru.

Esarhaddon mused over his wine goblet before announcing, "If it is necessary that I should be gone, I am placing you in charge during my absence. Remain here today and tomorrow and break camp at dawn upon the 20th. In the morning, you will follow through with the planned arrangements for the slave women and their offspring to be treated with olive oil to rid them of their teaming crops of vermin." The slaver scowled. "After the trouble they have put me through, I should forbid them to bathe and wash their garments in the river, but I have decided to be generous."

"Esarhaddon, that is a judicious course. The only thing that would be accomplished by taking away the privilege of bathing would be to force us all to endure the fetid stench of their bodies and the possibility of becoming contaminated with their lice. However, I do not think I am the best for the task of leadership. I have many other responsibilities, and there are the patients to whom I must attend..." Tushratta started to protest.

"Nonsense..." Esarhaddon leaned across the table and clasped the doctor's shoulder in a gesture of encouragement. "You are a good man and trustworthy. Besides, the added responsibility will be good for you."

"As you wish, Esarhaddon," the physician bowed his head in acquiescence.

"I have made arrangements for the care of Lady Goldwyn. I am sending over one of the camp prostitutes to help you tend to her." Observing Tushratta's arched eyebrow, the slaver quickly added, "You know all of them are clean and free of the pox that sets the organs of generation on fire. You should know," he laughed. "You examine them periodically."

Tushratta cleared his throat, preparing to make a protest. Aziru looked down, a sly smile upon his face.

"Now that bath awaits me." Esarhaddon rose to his feet and waited for the other man to stand and face him across the table. "My friend, the time comes for me to leave. If the woman awakens during the night - whatever the time - you are to send word to me immediately."

"Certainly, Esarhaddon." Tushratta nodded his head in affirmation. "May the blessings of your gods be upon you, may there always be salt and bread upon your table, water in your wells, shoes upon your horses' hooves, and may your seed find root and flourish in your women's bellies." Leaning forward, he inclined his head and brought his fingers to his heart, his lips and his forehead, bidding the slaver farewell.


	12. Chapter 11 - Land of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

After sighting the enemy patrol, the twins became keenly aware of their desperate need for weapons in these desolate wilds. Without any way to defend themselves, they were easy prey for wild animals or enemy patrols. Even with weapons, the journey would still be one fraught with peril, but at least the odds would be evened somewhat. Not much, but at least somewhat.

But what could they use for weapons? Fallen tree limbs would have to serve for clubs and spears; rocks in lieu of bow and arrow. Searching for branches light enough to carry yet stout enough to give a foe a nasty blow to the head, the twins found what they needed beneath the spreading boughs of a plane tree. The winds which came with the rains four days before had broken away several of the long, gray limbs and sent them crashing to the ground. The sisters chose two sturdy looking staves and went on their way. They prayed they would not have to use them. Such primitive weapons could hardly match iron in a fight. 

Mid-afternoon brought Elfhild and Elffled to a ruined fishing village by the Anduin. Once one of many prosperous and bustling river towns in Anórien, the little village now was only another reminder of the desolation which the war had brought. By the water's edge, there was a long wharf where boats had once loaded and unloaded. In better days, ducks, geese and other birds lighted upon the weathered boards to eat the scraps that people threw to them. On both sides of a thoroughfare leading westward, buildings had been reduced to forlorn heaps of charred wood and soot-blackened stone. The gray hued rubble was a mournful sight to see as it lay in piles on the brown earth; a fading reminder of a people so recently vanquished. 

"Grenefeld must look like this now," Elffled moaned despondently. 

Elfhild stared at the rubble, her body held stiff and rigid, her mind taking her far from this small river town – to the North – to Rohan. A faint breeze picked up the strands of her straight, straw-colored hair and tossed them to the side. The musty smell of damp ashes clung to the air. Though it was summer, there was a chill in the wind, and it sent prickles along her spine. Still, she stood there, as though she had been turned to stone. Grenefeld – her village – she had seen the ruddy glow of the fires that night, smelled the acrid stench of smoke on the spring air. Her village – just another which fell to the hand of the enemy, so much like this one in Anórien. 

A tug on her rolled-up sleeve pried Elfhild's attention away from the ruined town, and she turned her head to the side. There stood her sister, who looked at her uncertainly. 

"What should we do now?" Elffled asked softly. "Head west on the road that goes through this village, or keep on going north?" 

"I do not feel it would be wise to take the road," Elfhild replied, shaking her head. "What if we met that patrol we saw earlier?" She shivered, imagining their recapture by the cruel soldiers. "I think it would be best to wait before continuing onward."

Elffled glanced towards the town. "What about searching these ruins for anything that we might be able to use on our journey?" Though Elffled was vehemently opposed to this quest, she was a practical girl, and no matter how much she sulked, some shred of common sense always seemed to have a way of worming back into her brain. She would give this foolish venture a chance, but if one thing went wrong - just one thing - she would protest it highly!

Her brow furrowed in thought, Elfhild cast a scrutinizing glance around at the fishing village. "All right," she finally nodded. "We will explore the village, but keep a wary eye out for scouts."

The sisters wandered through the deserted streets, through the barren garths where gardens had once bloomed. With every step, their spirits sank lower and lower, sodden with sorrow like the mounded ashes which lay round in heaps. No words were said. A funereal hush hung over them like black clouds, gray and foreboding. Though they were there to scout out whatever plunder might still be left to take, neither girl felt much like exploring the blackened hulks of what once had been houses. Huddling together as though it were winter, the two yet among the living shuffled onward through this village of the dead. 

"Well, there is no use just milling about with no purpose," Elfhild tittered, somewhat nervously, her voice disrupting the quietude as sharply as a raven's cry. "We have not done so much as approach any of these ruined buildings. As you were saying, who knows what we might find, unharmed by the fire?" 

Elffled followed behind her sister as she walked towards the foundation stones of a large house. Chunks of the daub that had cracked away during the blaze lay in dirty piles upon the ground. Coming to the ruined doorway, Elfhild cautiously ventured forward, stepping over the stone threshold. There was no one living to tell the sisters what had happened to the village, but they surmised that the dreadful occurrence had been much like that which had befallen Grenefeld. Their men away at war, the women and children had been easy prey, with only a few having courage to challenge the orcs. These brave ones had either been bested in their struggles, or slain on the spot and left to die in their houses. Then the meeker ones who would not fight were quickly herded outside by the brutes and put in chains.

After the orcs had rounded up all the captives, they hurled lighted torches onto the thatched roofs, the straw igniting like dry tinder. Soon the flames were roaring through the houses like demons at play. At the height of the conflagration, the ceiling had crashed into the inferno, followed in its course by the walls of the building, there to crackle and burn in a fiery mound which gradually smoldered away. Though the intensity of the fire had been furious, not everything had been destroyed. The mud that had gone into the construction of the walls and the stone blocks around the foundation had spread a protective cloak over things left forlorn and abandoned...

Scattered over the blackened rubble on the ground were shards of pottery, metal which had melted into curious-looking lumps, and various other misshapen items which had not been consumed in the flames. Nothing stirred except a sleepy lizard which had been resting atop a blackened foundation stone. Now even that was gone, for the arrival of the sisters frightened the small creature and sent it scurrying away to safety.

As the girls walked gingerly about the interior, their feet crunched down on lumps of burnt wood, sending up soot that blackened their shoes. They looked about themselves, imagining how the house might have been arranged. Had it looked something like their home? Possibly it had much finer furnishings, they considered wistfully. Only the wealthy would have had the means to enjoy such a large house. Had this been the home of someone important, a village elder, perhaps? Elfhild and Elffled would never know. Their lives destroyed as their home had been, the survivors were now absent, suffering in captivity somewhere at the hands of the Southern slavers.

"There is nothing here to see but sadness," Elfhild muttered despondently.

"Wait, I see something!" Elffled exclaimed as she caught the glimpse of a partially buried object which protruded from under a dreary heap of dirt and ashes. "I wonder what this is... " Walking over to the rubble, she studied the long, pale object for a while, trying to determine what it might be. A broken shard of pottery... a ruined drinking horn, the antler of a deer... Then - as sudden as a strike of lightning - she realized what she beheld. Her breath halted in mid-inhalation; her heart seemed to shoot up in her chest like an arrow and then plunge back down into the confines of her bosom. She froze in place, as though she had been turned into a pillar of ice. Extending out of the rubble was a long, scorched thigh bone.

Dreadful images flooded unbidden into her mind... She could hear the uruks screaming their war songs of death and carnage as they broke down the door and poured inside... Their scimitars swinging, they cut down any who opposed them... The woman screamed as they threw her down to the floor and took their turns with her as her terrified children were forced to watch... Black smoke and flames rose up, hiding the mutilated body. Elffled felt the fear, the pain as though it were her own. Gasping, she forced her eyes from the charred, fragmented bone and wailed hysterically.

Alarmed by her sister's scream, Elfhild was instantly by her side. "What is wrong? Oh, I see," she gasped as her eyes dropped down to the object of Elffled's gaze. 

"Let us get out of here!" Elffled tugged her sister's sleeve frantically, her eyes welling up with tears. 

Elfhild knelt down to take a closer look at the bone. "How horrible," she murmured, the expression on her face one of sorrow. 

"Please, let us leave this awful place!" Elffled cried.

Elfhild slowly rose to her feet. "No – not until we have buried this victim of the enemy. There was no one to bury our mother after the orcs murdered her. I want to give this poor Gondorian what our mother never had."

"I can feel the presence of the woman who was killed here," Elffled whimpered. "Do you not hear her blood calling out for vengeance?"

"Yes, I can sense her anger and pain; it stains the ground like her blood," Elfhild replied, her voice sounding hollow to her ears. "But we cannot avenge her. All we can do is bury what remains of her body." 

Elffled's gaze returned to the bone, as though it were some dread talisman which had cast a dark spell over her. "Oh, Elfhild, I do not want to think of our mother like this, naught but charred bones buried in the ashes of our home." Her eyes welling up with tears, she looked away, unable to speak.

"Then think of her as she was, back when she was alive." Elfhild's voice was soft and tender. "Think of her smile, her face, the sound of her laughter. Remember how she played games with us when we were children and told us stories as she tucked us into bed at night. Remember how proud she was of her cooking and weaving, and how overjoyed she was whenever she won the pie contest at the midsummer fair." Her throat constricting with emotion, Elfhild attempted a wan smile and squeezed her sister's hand reassuringly. "This is how our mother would have wanted us to remember her, alive and happy. Now come and let us give this poor soul a decent burial."

*** 

The two girls gathered stones from the ruined foundation and heaped them over the bone, constructing a makeshift cairn to protect what remained of the body from further desecration. After the twins had said a few words to honor the dead, they softly sang an old dirge and then stood in respectful silence for a few moments. Here this victim of war would lie, buried in a shallow grave of rubble with the remains of those possessions which she had held dear in life. There was no time for a proper funeral, and no one to attend it save wild animals and birds, but the girls did their best. They could not even leave an offering of food for the dead because they could not spare a crumb of their meager larder. With sorrow in their hearts, both for their own woes and for the dire fates which had befallen the residents of the village, Elfhild and Elffled quietly departed from the house and made their way towards a dense section of woods which bordered the village. 

There they sat amid the tall trees, looking wistfully towards the west. Their senses as scorched as the village, they needed time to recover from the nightmarish sights which they had seen. The enemy patrol they had seen on the Great West Road had left both girls feeling skittish, and they were afraid to venture too close to the thoroughfare. With the path to the west blocked, there was not much the girls could do but wander aimlessly along the Anduin. They would have to bide their time and wait until the enemy patrol was long gone before continuing on their way. How long should they delay? Neither girl knew, and both were afraid to make an ill-timed move. As the day dragged on, the horror of the village dulled to mere discomfiture, and discomfiture faded to a lingering sense of melancholy, much like the way that the flesh of a corpse rots away to leave bare bones. How many more tragedies would they witness as they traveled through this war ravaged land?

With nothing much to do but wander and wait, the twins fell into an uneasy silence as they brooded upon their troubled thoughts. Hugging her knees to her chest, Elfhild sat beneath an oak tree and worried about what would become of her sister and her. She had never used to feel such doubt and uncertainty before the war. Up until that spring, she had thought she knew what her future would hold. In a year or so when she was old enough, she would marry Osric, the blacksmith's son. She had liked him since she was ten, and every time her family went to the village, she would always find some excuse to stop by the blacksmith's shop so she could see him. She had often daydreamed about their wedding, which she wanted to take place on Midsummer Day, right after her birthday. A bittersweet melancholy came over her as she remembered those sweet, innocent fantasies that had so often filled her head...

A crown made from straw and wheat and woven round with honeysuckle, daisies and other wildflowers would adorn her head, and the handsome groom would be quite the dashing sight attired in his best clothing. Prior to the ceremony, Osric would entrust the sword of his forefathers to her; later, she would return the weapon to him and they would exchange rings over the hilt of the sword. Clasping their hands upon the pommel, they would look into each other's eyes and recite their vows. The day would be one filled with festivity and merriment as both families celebrated the union. Elfhild always loved ceremonies, whether happy ones like weddings and festivals, or sad ones like funerals. 

But when the war had come, her whole world had been destroyed, and all her dreams had gone up in smoke. She did not even know if Osric was alive or if he had joined her father and brother in death. A lump rose up in her throat as she thought about the hair ribbon she had given him ere he rode out with the muster that sunny day back in March. She prayed that the small token had brought him luck, and he escaped the barbs and blades of his enemies.

What would happen to Elfhild and her sister when – if – they made it back to the Mark? Did any of their family yet live? What of childhood friends and neighbors? The Mark to which they would return would be naught like the Mark which they once knew. Did their country yet stand, or was it now a vassal of Mordor? Perhaps when they reached the border, they would be greeted by a welcoming party of orcs. She remembered the high lord who rode triumphantly through the Firien Wood, clad all in black and riding a steed of ebony. Mayhap he dwelt in Edoras now, holding court inside the Golden Hall. Such thoughts filled her heart with sorrow and dread. In a few days, she would know for sure what remained of her beloved homeland. Until then, she would have to spend her time both fearing and anticipating that moment of truth.

She and Elffled were venturing into the heart of the fire. She prayed they would not get burnt.


	13. Chapter 12 - Two Healers; One Harlot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After the slaver had left the tent, Aziru grinned wickedly at Tushratta. "More company tonight, Doctor, and such delightful company it will be! I must prepare something special for supper.

"Aziru, why do you always insist upon cooking when I own three slave boys, one of whom is an experienced cook. You do more than your share of the work as it is. Why not rest this evening and let them take care of preparing the meal?" Tushratta glanced up from his journal spread before him on the low table. Scowling slightly, he took the reed pen, dipped it in ink, and added a few notes to the paper.

"Cooking gives me immense satisfaction, almost as much as I derive from studying works on medicine and collecting medicinal plants in the field. Besides, I like to eat," the small Khandian chuckled, "and if I prepare the food, I know the meal will not deviate from my high expectations."

"Then prepare whatever you want, Aziru." The master physician was distracted, his mind far away from mundane matters such as what would be served for supper. His concentration was totally directed towards the perplexing case of Goldwyn of Rohan. Though he could find no physical cause for her strange lethargy, he still hesitated to give it a supernatural explanation. There were other possibilities. Perhaps she had fallen victim to a bizarre form of the sleeping sickness which often raged through the far South, sickening many.

Possibly she was in the second phase of the disease... that would explain the disturbed sleep cycle that she was experiencing, the doctor reasoned to himself. Maybe the exertion that she experienced in escaping from the orcs had so weakened her that she had fallen into a state of total physical exhaustion, making her body more susceptible to disease. That could explain the hysterical shrieking that they had heard. There were some definite correlations between her case and sleeping sickness. Tushratta thought of the victims of the disease that he had seen in the past. Perhaps she had fallen prey to the malady...

But still, there was no characteristic swelling of her neck, armpits, chest, stomach and groin. Sleeping sickness was an impossibility! How could a woman who was native to the North ever fall victim to a disease of Far Harad? Tushratta felt relieved that there was little chance that this could be the disease which plagued her, for there was no cure known for sleeping sickness, the disease always being fatal.

While Goldwyn's strange malady shared symptoms with other diseases, Tushratta had ruled them out one by one. What was left for a diagnosis? He was not one of the simple who gave every natural event - from the cry of a bird at night to the appearance of a comet - a supernatural explanation. While he believed that magic still existed in the world, his logical mind had as yet to see the proof of it. Everything could be explained either by the ruling of Destiny or by natural occurrence.

While Tushratta pondered the dilemma of diagnosing the bizarre case, his assistant bustled around the tent as he made plans for the supper. Inspecting their food stores, he noted the quantities of dried beans, rice and lentils; the amounts of flour, dried meat, fruit and cheese. He ran a finger over the sealed earthenware jars of jams and jellies, and then came to the olives, pickled cucumbers, onions, and the other vegetables which were preserved in jars of brine. Occasionally taking out a pinch of dried leaves from small pots, he crushed them between his fingers, inhaling the exotic essences before placing the ingredients in a basin and stirring them together.

"Something a little more festive for supper... Let me see..." Resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger, Aziru mentally inventoried his collection of cooking supplies, utensils and spices. "The camp cook will prepare his usual unimaginative griddle bread for supper and sprinkle the tops of the round loaves with sesame and aniseed, as he always does. He varies but seldom in what he prepares. The man is to be pitied, for he does not have the soul of a true cook!"

"That sounds fine, Aziru," replied the doctor. Not really paying attention to what his assistant was saying, Tushratta stared into space, his mind on other matters.

Aziru shot a sharp glance at the physician. "Each food must compliment every other one upon my table. But there are so many limitations to cooking on the trail! Or perhaps I should say challenges." He sprinkled another spice into the basin. "Such a shame that you and I have been so long away from Bablon, Tushratta, for the cooks there are among the finest in the world. Who else save the chefs of Bablon would devise recipes for over fifty kinds of bread!" Aziru added a little water to the concoction and swirled it around. "Does the Master Physician have a preference for tonight's meal? Something special that I might prepare for him?" A questioning look upon his face, he turned to the physician.

"No, Aziru," he replied absentmindedly. "I have nothing particular that I wish for supper. Beans, rice and lintels prepared in a soup... lamb would be a marvelous addition, but since we do not have it--" Tushratta interrupted himself in mid-sentence, "--you know I am an ordinary man and believe in eating simple meals."

"Of course." Talking out loud to himself, Aziru was not giving his full attention to Tushratta's words. He returned to the inspection of his food supplies. "Ahhh, for some yogurt and turnips! What I would give for even a little fresh, soft cheese!" Aziru exclaimed, closing his eyes and letting his reverie transport him far away. "Master, do you remember the wonderful aroma of Bablon in winter! The glorious city was perfumed by the odor of turnips simmering in date syrup and water. I can still remember the tantalizing fragrance that filled the nostrils on those cool winter days. Surely you remember, Doctor... Doctor?" Aziru turned around, ready to repeat his question, when he realized that the physician was no longer there. He noted that the arras between the two chambers was swaying slightly.

Aziru shook his head. "My friend has gone to the inner chamber to see if the woman has stirred. He does not think I notice the way his eyes gleam with desire when he looks at her." Aziru opened the jar of dried lentils and tossed a few handfuls into the liquid. "Tushratta should have his own woman to take care of his needs," he reflected to himself. "For that matter, so should I."

Bending down, he picked up an earthenware container of chickpeas. "Perhaps some lemon juice and garlic would give more taste... then for desert, dried figs cooked with cinnamon, walnuts and sesame seeds. The physician does not eat enough..." He shook his head. "Perhaps if I add more sugar..."

***

Later that evening, Aziru was busily absorbed with his cooking when one of the servant boys admitted a young woman, not much more than a girl. A leather case containing a tanbur slung from a strap over her shoulder and a baby held in her arms, the woman smiled shyly under lowered eyelids as she began to kneel.

"Sang-mí, my darling! You do not need do obeisance to me!" Aziru called out. "I will not hear of your bowing!"

"My lord Aziru..."

"Hush, girl!" The physician's assistant walked over to the girl. After helping her to her feet, he held a finger to her lips to silence her protests. "No lord am I, but only an herbalist and a doctor's helper... and a fair cook, if you would count that. Let me hold your child while you put your mantle and lute on that stool over there."

"Master, a woman of my station never assumes anything," she murmured softly as she placed the babe into Aziru's outstretched arms. Unfastening the brooch which held her mantle secured under her chin, she pulled the garment away from her head and shoulders. The removal of her covering revealed a young woman with large brown kohl-lined eyes set in a moon-shaped face, unblemished light olive skin, and a small, round nose. Her dark, shiny tresses fell in tightly coiled ringlets over her shoulders. Her milk-swollen breasts were barely covered by the scandalously low necked long jacket of dark green which she wore over a flowing blue dress. Her only jewelry was a piece of coral set upon an inexpensive silver-plated chain. Out of all the pleasure slaves which Esarhaddon retained for the use of his men, her eyes were the only ones which yet remained soft and gentle. She had not yet acquired the hard appearance that came with years of use and disillusion.

Looking around the tent, Sang-mí asked, "Where can I make a bed for the child? Am I sleeping with you or the physician tonight... or the both of you?"

"Neither," replied Tushratta's deep voice as he parted the curtain and stepped forward into the room.

"Master," Sang-mí murmured softly as she sank to the carpet and kissed the sleeve of his caftan. Bending down, the physician took her by the hands and pulled her to her feet. Being careful not to raise her eyes to him, she studied the carpet until he cupped her chin and brought her face to gaze into his.

"Sang-mí, how many times must I tell you that you do not have to bow to either of us when you are in my tent? In public, yes, abide by custom, but not here."

"Too many times perhaps, Master, but most men demand that slaves show them the proper deference." Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked up to him. "If I am not to warm the bed of either of you tonight, why have I been commanded by my master Esarhaddon to come here? He sent a slave boy to tell me that you needed my services, and what was I to think except..."

"Not this time, angel of Paradise." Tushratta stroked the silky skin under her chin with the backs of his fingers. Aziru sent the physician a disappointed look as he dandled the child in his arms. "There is another woman inside lying on my couch..."

Sang-mí raised an eyebrow. "You wish for me to kiss and caress her while the two of you watch and indulge yourselves? While sometimes I have been called upon by masters to ready a girl for their pleasure in that way, I must say that I have always been reluctant to do such things, for they go against my natural inclinations."

"Sang-mí, you misunderstand," Tushratta explained. "This is the woman who was found in the tomb. She has never awakened from her unusual slumber, and needs to be watched continuously."

"Oh, Master, I understand now!" She smiled approvingly. "Please take me to her."

***

After the supper was finished and the dishes were cleared away by the servant boys, the two physicians and the harlot reclined on the cushions on the floor as they drank their tea. Though the physician had politely complimented Aziru on his cooking, Sang-mí had been effusive in her compliments, offering to reward him generously for his efforts later that night.

"Master Aziru, let me show you how much I appreciate your culinary efforts with some sport on your sleeping mat... or on the rug, or the table, or against the tent pole... or anywhere else that you please, for that matter," she offered seductively, her voice deep and throaty. "Perhaps you would enjoy pretending that I am a virgin and that you are examining my virtue... Then when it is found that I am unable to live up to the standards of modesty, you could spank me for my naughtiness."

"I would like that very much, Sang-mí," Aziru breathed heavily as he leaned towards her. Turning to the head physician for approval, he discovered that Tushratta had once again immersed himself in his books and was not giving his attention to the conversation.

Glancing up from a scroll, Tushratta inquired blandly, "What did you say, Sang-mí?"

"Nothing, Master..." she giggled as she assumed an innocent expression and fluttered her long eyelashes modestly at him. "But it is time for my son Nib to be fed." Deftly averting Aziru's groping hands, she scampered to her feet. Bowing as she rose, she retired to the inner chamber, where her child had been sleeping during the meal.

Aziru groaned in displeasure, and Tushratta looked up at him curiously. "Something not agreeing with your stomach?"

"Aye, you could say it was a distress in the lower regions, but it will pass," Aziru replied drolly.

"The girl is gone?" Tushratta inquired questioningly. "Ah, well, it is time for bed anyway," he remarked, gathering up his journal and other papers. Both he and Aziru followed Sang-mí.

Taking up the child, who had been lying on a blanket on the floor and complaining loudly about his hunger, Sang-mí pushed aside her low-cut bodice and shoved a nipple in the child's mouth. Aziru set up his hookah by the low table and watched in fascination as Sang-mí suckled her baby. The chief physician went back to his reading but found that he had trouble concentrating, for his eyes continually wandered to the nearby couch where the sleeping Goldwyn lay. Tushratta's worry for her had absorbed his thoughts until her plight had become an obsession for him. His concern had increased with the passage of each hour. Once again he read and reread the section called "On the Nature of Those Who Are Afflicted With Evil Spirits" in his well-worn volume.

His forehead wrinkled with concern, Aziru studied the vapor from the pipe. "Are you finding anything in your scrolls that might lead you to a diagnosis and cure? No? I see you shake your head. I thought as much... If you cannot discover anything, perhaps you should put up the parchment and join me in a smoke? You should relax more."

Looking across the table at his assistant, Tushratta's face was clouded in discouragement. "No, no pipe tonight. Perhaps I made a mistake in judgment when I devoted myself totally to medicine and did not study under a shaman in addition. At least then I would have more of an understanding of the occult than I have now." He shook his head. "Actually, we should consult a specialist in these things."

"Too late to do anything about it now, Tushratta," Aziru murmured sleepily as he exhaled a lofty smoke ring. "Khand is too far away to send for help."

The child finished feeding, and Sang-mí brushed her lips across his forehead. "The boy is asleep now. Of course, he will soon be hungry again." She made a lyrical sound deep in her throat as she placed the baby upon the bed that Aziru had created for him from a blanket-covered reed mat. When she returned to the physician and his assistant, Sang-mí saw that Aziru's eyes had taken on a glazed appearance.

"Time for me to sleep and dream the dreams of the blessed," he yawned as he languidly rose to his feet and set the stem of the waterpipe upon the tray on the table. "Sleep well, Tushratta, and remember, Sang-mí, if my friend Tushratta allows it, you can always come over and keep me company in my bed."

"Aziru, you know she is not here for that purpose," the physician frowned in displeasure.

"I know, I know, but it does no harm to think." Sighing, the small man walked over to his sleeping mat and stripped down to his loincloth. Yawning prodigiously, he scratched his rotund, hairy stomach and lay down, pulling a blanket over his body as he turned onto his side. Sang-mí watched him with interest as she stood by her son's sleeping pallet. After blowing Aziru a kiss, she turned and walked over to gaze down at the unconscious Goldwyn.

"Sang-mí, rub my back." Closing the book, Tushratta groaned slightly as he stretched his arms.

"Yes, Master," she purred as she swayed over. Kneeling down behind him, she began massaging the taut muscles in his neck and shoulders. "What is wrong with the Northern woman? Her face is ashen, she is cold to the touch, and she barely moves!" Alarmed at her first sight of Goldwyn, Sang-mí gave her head a quick jerk to the side, gesturing towards the sleeping woman.

"That I wish I knew." Tushratta sighed as he leaned back into her probing fingers. "Perhaps this book has the answer, but as yet, I cannot find it... or perhaps it is that I have already found it but do not wish to accept it."

"Master, how long has it been since you have slept?" Sang-mí asked with concern. "You look exhausted!"

"Some sleep during the noon siesta, but that is all since the night before last," Tushratta replied wearily.

"Then please sleep now! Do not fear. I will keep a vigilant watch over the woman and awaken you if she stirs."

"I think I will take your suggestion, Sang-mí. I am so weary that I fear I will fall asleep over my books if I stay here any longer. Extinguish the lanterns and snuff out all the candles, save for one to give you light enough to see by." Stumbling to his feet, Tushratta made his way to his sleeping mat, where he slid off his slippers and began pulling his caftan over his head.

"Master," Sang-mí called softly, "I am ashamed. You should have told me to assist you in undressing... If you should have need for me to bring you comfort and consolation during the night, you have but to command."

No answer greeted her except a great snore, for Tushratta had sprawled onto his mat and was already asleep on the pillows.


	14. Chapter 13 - An Argument Between Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The sun was sinking behind the dark mountains to the west as the sisters finished their evening meal. As she popped the last piece of bread into her mouth, Elfhild felt her sister's eyes burning into her, regarding her with envious scrutiny. Famished from the day's journey, Elffled had hastily wolfed down her own food and then spent the remainder of the meal staring at Elfhild. The look of greedy hunger upon her twin's face was quite intimidating, and Elfhild almost wondered if her sister were eying her as the next course.

"If we want to make our food supply last," she dutifully reminded, "we must be niggardly with it." Such words, though, hardly brought comfort to a protesting stomach.

"You know, we could be eating good food now, not these lint-covered leftovers, which, eaten all together, could barely fill a kitten," Elffled growled sullenly. Shaken by the sight of the ruined village, unhappy at the prospects of wandering through a desolate wasteland on a hopeless quest, and tormented by hunger, her temper began to flare.

Elfhild was at a loss for words. Suddenly she felt as helpless as a mother with a hungry child and no way to feed it. But, honestly, what could she do? She was hardly some sorceress who could make food appear by magic! Elffled had no right to complain about their lack of provisions, especially since neither one of them could do anything about it. "Well, get used to it," she snapped, chafing with resentment at her sister's implied criticism. "We are going back to the Mark, not to the slavers' camp to wait in line for food."

"Ah, and starve to death along the way," came Elffled's sardonic rejoinder.

Elfhild glared at the other girl, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with ugly, mocking acrimony. "For someone who refused even to go near the Easterlings to ask for a few pathetic pieces of candy, you certainly seem to have developed a fondness for their cooking."

"I do not care for strangers ramming their tongues down my throat, but I have no qualms about eating food, even if it does come from the hands of our enemies," Elffled replied coolly, but her eyes blazed in challenge. Though it was only their first day on the trail, the hours spent in solitude were beginning to wear upon her. Being forced to endure the constant presence of her sister had not seemed so bad when they were with the rest of the captives, for then she had her aunt when she needed comfort or company.

Elfhild blushed and turned her head, embarrassed by her twin's bold choice of wording and taken off guard by the ice in her voice. Elffled's point was valid. Who could blame her for wanting food? Elfhild's own stomach growled, the meager rations serving only as a mocking temptation. Suddenly she felt very awkward, as though she had been sleepwalking and awoke to find herself standing naked in the midst of the village marketplace during a crowded fair. She tried to think of an appropriate retort, but her mind went blank.

"We will get to the Mark, and we will not starve," she replied quietly, her voice filled with a resolution she did not feel.

"Suppose we do reach the Mark," Elffled demanded, gesturing about with her hand. "What do we do then? I know your plan is to take refuge at Dunharrow, but what if the mountain stronghold has been taken? Where will we go?"

Elfhild sighed heavily. "We will just have to keep traveling until we find some enclave of our own people. Surely there are some survivors still left! The enemy could not have captured or killed them all!" She tried to keep the desperation and uncertainty from creeping into her voice. "Before the darkness, many from our village and the surrounding villages fled for the west. I hope we can find our cousins among the refugees." Picking up a small twig from the ground, she nervously peeled off the loose, dry bark. "If not, then I fear that we must live upon the mercy of others."

Elffled cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" Were they to prostitute themselves for a crust of bread?

Sighing, Elfhild looked down at the now denuded twig. "We have no other choice than to become servants and pay for our bread and board with our labor."

"After risking our lives for freedom, we are to become lowly servants?" Elffled exclaimed in exaggerated astonishment, her eyes widening to large circles. The lowest class of Rohan, that of the bond servant, was comprised of those who had fallen into heavy debt; petty criminals who had been condemned to servitude; Dunlending raiders who had been taken captive; and impoverished people who had relinquished their rights in exchange for provisions and shelter.

"If we wish to continue eating," Elfhild replied sharply.

"But we were never servants back at home," Elffled pointed out haughtily with an arrogant shake of her head to add further emphasis to her words. "Though the thane owned our lands, our father was a freeman, as were his father and his father before him. I thought we ran away from servitude, not to exchange one thralldom for another." What a twist of irony this was! She felt like laughing, but feared that it would soon sound hysterical.

Elfhild's eyes widened and then narrowed. How dare she compare honorable servitude to enslavement by a cruel and merciless enemy! "There is no shame in serving in the house of a lord or lady," she sniffed. "Actually, it would probably be lively and exciting, with feasts and celebrations and all sorts of new things to see and do. In time, we could earn our freedom, or perhaps our master or mistress would take pity upon us and free us. 'Tis not so bad, Elffled," she explained reassuringly. "During hard times, others have done the same."

"I have a better idea," Elffled snapped peevishly. "Why do you want to run all the way to the Mark when you could stay here and be the slave of the Haradrim and Easterlings? Let us turn back and surrender ourselves to the slavers. One form of servitude is as good as another."

Elfhild looked at her sister as though she had desecrated a sacred fane or urinated upon the barrow of Helm Hammerhand. "Oh, Elffled, what silly nonsense!" Elfhild retorted. "If I did not know better, I would think you were enamored of them! That Daungha with his kisses must have stolen your heart!"

Elffled flushed with crimson heat. "That bastard can freeze in the ice pits of Hel for all I care. I just want to eat," she replied sullenly. Every time that horrible man's name was mentioned, she relived her humiliation at his hands.

"I am not so sure of that," Elfhild taunted, raking her brain for an appropriate insult. "Maybe that is why you want to go back... so you can be there waiting for the handsome Khandian cavalryman when he returns from the war. I am sure he would be glad to see you again!"

"Elfhild, you idiot, how many times do I have to say that he holds no interest for me?" Bristling like an angry hen, Elffled crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her sister. "What does he have to do with this anyway? He is not the one who talked us into escaping. Oh, no," she fumed, her voice rising. "It was that shrew Goldwyn who filled your head with wild schemes. Anyone who would believe such rubbish as she spouted must be even madder than she is! I cannot believe I have a lunatic like you for a sister!" As soon as she saw the look of hurt on Elfhild's face, Elffled realized that she had made a mistake, but she had heard enough of absurd dualities and twisted logic.

Stricken to the core by her sister's hateful words, Elfhild stared blankly at the other girl for a long moment before she burst into tears. Wild panic surged up inside her, compelling her to obey a primal urge to flee. Her face burning and tears streaming down her cheeks, she leapt to her feet, turned on her heels and fled into the gathering dusk.

Elffled laughed cynically as she watched her sister run away. Let her pout like a bratty little child! She was a misguided fool, like all the rest of them.

In truth, Elffled had no qualms about forfeiting their freedom to be bond servants. She only argued with her sister in an attempt to show her how absurd her thinking was. A life of servitude might be their only chance of survival, should worse come to worse. Earning their keep by hard labor was far better than disgracing themselves and dishonoring their family by turning to less than honorable means of employment. Right now, though, her thoughts were far from her homeland. Instead they lingered sadly upon her aunt and cousin, who were journeying in the opposite direction.

Sighing heavily, Elffled slumped back upon the ground, lying there as though utterly exhausted. She considered muttering a rather colorful curse, but decided it took too much effort. How could Goldwyn possibly think that they could accomplish anything by running away? They had no weapons and they were not trained in the ways of war. Perhaps if they had the skill and knowledge of the Riders, then things would have been much different. Unfortunately, that was not the case, and they would surely starve upon this senseless campaign. If only Goldwyn had kept her rabble-rousing mouth shut! Then none of this would have ever happened!

Clasping her face with her hands, Elffled dragged her fingers over her forehead and cheeks, stretching the skin downward and letting it spring back up. Guilt was catching up with her, like an opponent in a brutal race. Perhaps she was wrong in condemning her sister. Elfhild did, after all, think she was doing the right thing by adventuring this quest. Maybe it was the right thing. Who was the judge of things like that? The Gods, perhaps, but they did not share their secrets. Would their ancestors have deemed her right or wrong? Who knew the thoughts of dead men from a defeated land?

It was getting darker by the minute, and still Elfhild had not returned. The sun had gone down, leaving behind only her memory in the form of a faint rosy glow which tinted the dark blue sky. Her anger cooling like the evening air, Elffled began to feel sad and lonely. She should not have been so harsh on the other girl and allowed her pent-up frustrations to get the best of her. Of course, Elfhild would never leave her, though that unsettling thought had crossed her mind. Elfhild was just in a pout and would return when she had come to her senses. Back at home, she would run to her grandmother's barrow or hide in the woods when she was upset giving everyone quite a fright when they came looking for her. Here in the wilderness, though, it was not safe to wander alone. Steeling herself, Elffled rose to her feet and walked into the forest in search of her sister.

***

Elfhild sat upon a fallen log, her elbows digging uncomfortably into her knees, her chin resting in her hands. Her chest ached from the force of her coughing sobs and her eyes felt sandy from the flood of tears which had run down her cheeks. She stared into the mist which had slowly begun to rise along the line of skeletal trees by the waters of the Anduin. The gloominess of her surroundings complimented her mood quite well, and she almost welcomed the darkness of the gloaming as her spirit sank ever deeper into pensive melancholy.

She was being torn in twain, as though two strong men had seized her by each wrist and proceeded to pull her in opposite directions. Elffled would have her turn back and beg mercy from their enemies, and Goldwyn would have her press relentlessly forward. Which one was right? What was the right decision? Or was there one?

She sighed heavily, her heart aching. She felt so lost without her father and mother there to guide her. Though her body had blossomed into that of a young woman, still she felt much like a child. What did she know of surviving in the wilderness and planning great journeys? She had never gone hunting and seldom went fishing, nor did she know aught of fighting. The skills at which she excelled - cooking, cleaning, weaving, spinning, sewing, gardening, gathering herbs, raising hay and wheat, tending to animals, and taking care of a house - were virtually worthless out here in this wasteland, for nothing was growing and most of the animals had wandered off in search of greener pastures. At this stage in the journey, it was too dangerous even to risk starting a fire for warmth or cooking, for the smoke would be seen by the enemy.

When Goldwyn had first talked about escaping, Elfhild had imagined that she and her sister would be traveling with a large group of people. There would have been older women to offer leadership and advice, and doughty lads to help protect them. Actually, Elfhild's troop would have been the ideal arrangement - Goldwyn was an indomitable leader and Waerburh made a worthy second-in-command; Fródwine and Frumgár were strong and courageous boys with a wealth of knowledge in woodcraft and hunting; and Leofgifu was a giver of wise counsel. Elfhild and Elffled could help with cooking and gathering food; even fight if need called. The whole group could help protect little Fritha and Hunig and poor Breguswith.

Elfhild had never expected to journey alone. Of course, they might not have to; maybe they would meet some of the other captives and then they could flee back home together. She could hope... she did that a lot. Maybe that was a bad quality, for oft did her confidence that good fortune would always prevail make her blind to reality. Perhaps that was why she was in this mess in the first place; she had allowed herself to become too wrapped up in Goldwyn's impassioned speeches.

Ah, but she had felt such a powerful feeling of camaraderie then, as though she and the other women were united as one powerful, living, breathing entity. She looked up to the cobalt heavens above her, sighing wistfully as she recalled how brave and mighty she had felt. They were as riders the night before a battle, steeling themselves for the final charge! Honor and glory would be theirs, and their tales would be told in song for many long years to come.

A wavering little smile came to Elfhild's lips when she thought back to the nights when she had listened with rapt attention to Goldwyn's bold conspiracy, as though the older woman were some golden goddess of war and she were an humble devotee. How honored and important she had felt when she had spread the word to the other captives! Goldwyn was such a strong and heroic woman, somewhat like Elfhild's own mother, but far more audacious and daring.

Her mother... Elfhild lightly pressed a hand to her grieving heart and struggled to keep the tears at bay. What would her mother have done, had she not been so ruthlessly murdered? Would she have accompanied her daughters on their flight, or would she have forbidden them from going? It was difficult to say. True, Athelthryth had fought like a warrior to defend her home, but would she have counseled her daughters to risk everything to escape?

Athelthryth and Leofgifu had been the best of friends, and the two women were much alike in their thinking. Would Athelthryth have also considered Goldwyn's plan to escape as foolish madness? A cruel, mocking thought flailed Elfhild's mind with agonizing guilt - would she have abandoned her mother as easily as she had done her aunt? Elfhild's fingers clenched the fabric of her dress as her body slumped forward slightly. No, no! That was unthinkable! Her head swam and she felt sick to her stomach.

"Oh no," she moaned piteously, "what have I done? I have forsaken my own aunt and cousin, and for what? I do not really know... I do not really know." Oh, never in her life had she felt so uncertain, so confused, so frightened!

Elfhild felt the wall of reckless bravado she had raised about herself begin to crumble, and she was a timid, fearful little girl once more. She must run back and beg her aunt's forgiveness! What was she doing here? Her breath was now coming in heavy pants, as though she had run a great race. The trees seemed to grow taller, the shadows deepening, becoming ominous and foreboding. Her fingers trembled and she clenched her fists in a futile effort to still them. Oh, what had she done? What had she done? She ran her fingers through her dirty hair, clutching at the tangled strands.

"I must not panic," she murmured, striving with herself. "I cannot panic! It will serve no use and only make the situation worse!" Closing her eyes tightly, Elfhild took a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly. She was in control. Yes, she was in control. She and her sister would get back to the Mark. They would find their relatives in one of the refugee camps. Just when all seemed lost, somehow the enemy would be defeated and driven from their land. She would marry Osric, raise a family and live to be a grandmother. Her tale would have a happy ending. Good always triumphed over evil! Yes... yes. That was it. Breathe slowly, deeply, pause between taking breaths. Yes, that was it.

Suddenly Elfhild heard a noise, the muffled sound of a foot stepping down upon a stick. She froze, then relaxed, realizing Elffled had come looking for her. Then the urge to flee came again. Her poor feelings had been raked over the coals by her dear sister, and she was in no mood to talk to the little witch. Springing to her feet, she began briskly walking away.

"Elfhild!" Elffled called, hurrying to catch up with her.


	15. Chapter 14 - Mists Along the Anduin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Ignoring her sister's pleading cries, Elfhild marched forward, weaving a meandering course through the trees which grew along the bank of the Anduin. Why should she even bother to talk with a girl who had been so cruel and insulting? Though usually soft-spoken and friendly, Elffled had a mean streak which sometimes reared its ugly head. Well, Elfhild was not going to stay around and allow her sister to abuse her. Let her remain behind and sulk! A malicious thought offered wicked temptation: she should leave the whining Elffled in the dust and journey to the Mark without her. If Elffled wanted to go back with the slavers so badly, then let her! But, no, that would be cruel, and, besides, Elfhild was too frightened to travel alone.

The shadowy forms of trees loomed up all about her, their black boles like columns which supported the roof of spidery branches above. The moon shone as half a silver coin in a sky of dusty bluish sable, its pale light aiding her in choosing her course through the gloaming. A vaporous cloud of mist hung low about the trees like gossamer tatters of wispy cloth which lay forgotten upon the ground.

The evening was turning chill, and Elfhild clutched her cloak tightly about her throat. When the clouds of woe had been driven away and the sun had begun to sear the denuded land with her brilliant light, Elfhild had cursed her cloak, for the thick wool had been a torment in the heat. Now it was a blessing, for the old brown cloak lessened the bite of the damp air and reminded her of home.

"Elfhild!" Elffled was calling to her again. Her voice was an annoying dissonance which was grating to Elfhild's ears. Gritting her teeth, she clenched her fists and walked faster. Behind her, she heard the sounds of running feet and heavy breathing.

"Elfhild!" the other girl gasped, out of breath. Elfhild felt fingers clasp themselves about her shoulder, felt a stirring of the air as her sister skirted around her side to stand in front of her. "What are you doing?" she panted, her eyes wild. "It is far too dangerous to be out here wandering in the darkness with not even a candle to light your way!"

"As you know, we of the people of Eorl are renowned for our excellent night vision, and, besides, several months spent in darkness does wonders to strengthen the eyes," Elfhild remarked sardonically as she smoothly sidestepped her sister and continued on her way.

Elffled allowed her hands to fall heavily to her sides as she growled in frustration. "Elfhild, please! I am sorry for insulting you! Please do not be angry at me!"

Spinning around to face her twin, Elfhild glared into the face which was identical to her own. "What ever would cause you to think that I might be angry?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Ah, it could have something to do with the fact you ran away with tears in your eyes," Elffled replied dryly. "But perhaps I was mistaken..."

"Oh, shut your impertinent little mouth."

Elffled sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. "Listen, I said a lot of hateful things, which was very unkind of me. But I was hungry and grouchy, and had just seen a horrible sight. When you are surrounded by death, it has a tendency to make you feel rather hopeless and out of sorts... and, so, I said things I should not have said. I am sorry. Please forgive me." She looked to Elfhild, the expression on her face speaking only of regret and repentance.

Elfhild was silent for a long moment. She would not meet her sister's gaze and instead stared at some obscure point in the distance. The dim evening had turned into the dark night, and the mists began to deepen, rising from the ground like ghostly waters. Gradually the fog began to pass by them in cool, wet sheets, like the fleeting forms of wraiths.

"I wonder if these woods are haunted," Elfhild murmured softly, turning back to look at her sister.

"You are changing the subject, Hilde." Elffled's eyes narrowed.

Elfhild shrugged. "Perhaps. But, as you say, when one is surrounded by death..." A wry little smile crossed her lips, a twisted shade of mirth.

Shivering, Elffled pulled the edges of her cloak forward, shifting the woolen garment so that it gave her shoulders more coverage. "The humor of the barrow is best shared in the light of day," she grumbled.

The gloom of the night hid Elfhild's devilish smile. "Ah, but I was being serious. What if from out of the mists there appeared some dread spectre, moaning and wailing out some lonesome dirge?" She pointed to two almost identical trees which seemed to stand like doorposts surrounding some dark doorway to realms of the unknown. Heavy with age, their gnarled branches drooped down, resembling arms beckoning the traveler to venture within. "What if the spectre appeared there between those trees, an eerie wind billowing out its pale shroud?"

"Oh, Elfhild, do not talk about such things!" Elffled cried out in alarm. "You could summon forth phantoms, and I do not wish to meet any on such a dark and foggy night!"

"Very well then... I will not speak of ghosts..." Elfhild paused briefly to allow her sister to calm somewhat. "But what if... what if..." her eyes glittered and her voice rose in intensity, "what if in this mist, we were to chance upon a coven of elves dancing in a magic circle?"

"I did not wish to hear of elf circles, either," moaned Elffled.

A smirk upon her face, Elfhild laughed gaily and began dancing about the grove, delighting in the torment which she was inflicting upon her sister. Served her right! Elfhild would have a little amusement at the other girl's expense. Suddenly she stopped within her tracks and began speaking in a deep, melodramatic voice, much like a storyteller at a mummer's fair.

"'Tis said they tryst in secret moots on hazy nights like these, gathering about in wide circles." She stretched out the word "wide" and flung her arms far apart to demonstrate. "Deep within the forest, they feast and revel, playing strange yet beautiful music and singing songs so lovely that all who hear them are utterly bewitched." Closing her eyes and tilting her head to the side as though caught in a beautiful daydream, she pretended to pluck the strings of an imaginary harp. "'Round their rings are flickering flames wrought of glamoury, and 'tis said that strange magick lingers in those places." She paused for emphasis and then stared straight at her sister before intoning a grave warning, "You know what happens if a careless foot should chance to step inside..."

"Oh yes, I know!" Elffled whimpered. "You do not need to tell me!" Fearfully she looked about, half expecting some fell spirit or an elf witch to emerge from the gloom and drag them into the evil night.

"Few can escape the snares which they weave about their lairs like spider webs of the gloaming," Elfhild whispered darkly, circling her sister as though she were an elf witch herself. "If you were to fall under their power, Elffled, the elves would capture you and no one would ever see you again." Coming up behind the other girl, Elfhild grabbed her shoulder roughly, taking her by surprise. "You would be spirited away to the Haunted Forest where dwells the Elf Queen, and there you would remain as her slave..." she rasped out a whisper into Elffled's ear, "forever!"

Gasping, Elffled twisted out of her sister's grasp and spun around to face her. "Oh, why are you tormenting me?"

"I only seek to warn you," Elfhild replied sweetly, the perfect picture of feigned innocence with heavenward looking eyes and hands clasped underneath her chin.

Elffled scowled. "Somehow, I do not quite believe that."

"Ah, but perhaps we shall be fortunate and not see anything at all," Elfhild offered in sugary consolation.

"That sounds much better."

"--Naught save a ring of mushrooms which have sprung up from the magick drenched soil, the only memory of the elves who gathered once in these woods."

"Do not start that up again!"

Elffled's pleas once again went unheeded, for Elfhild was enjoying taunting her younger sister too much to take pity upon her. "Oh, I hope that we do not see a male elf! Oh, truly then we would be undone! We would be besmitten the moment our eyes beheld him, ensorcelled by a spell of love! And, ohh, if he did not take us with him to his magical land, we would spend our days in woeful pining, weeping out the anguish of our broken hearts!"

"It is more likely that we would meet men of the enemy," Elffled growled, trying to bring her sister back to earth.

"It is said that to fall in love with an elf is an evil doom, but, really, would it be so terrible to be whisked away to some fair realm, far away from this dreadful place?" Her eyelashes fluttering, Elfhild sighed dreamily. "Mayhap two of their princes shall take a fancy to us... Oh, could you imagine that, Elffled?" She giggled. "Midsummer is coming... Perhaps we shall celebrate it with the elves. Just think of it!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "We shall disappear into the mists and forget all of our worries and cares... the fragrance of the pine woods all about us, the stars burning brightly overhead... the moon a lantern to light our way as we dance merrily throughout the night..."

Grumbling under her breath, Elffled bore her sister's silly ramblings. So this taunting was how Elfhild was achieving her revenge. She should have known! Ah, well, she probably deserved it anyway.

While Elfhild was playing her games, the night had grown chiller. The mists deepened, swirling before their eyes in billowy clouds. What if the fog indeed had some supernatural cause? Now Elfhild was scaring herself! She was starting to feel just as frightened as her sister. Not just of phantoms or spectres, though - there were other evils of which to be afraid. The search parties of the slavers and the military patrols - just the thoughts of being found by the enemy were enough to make her quake in terror. Suddenly her amusement had ended.

Their imaginations already a fertile field for fear, the twins became increasingly uneasy. Black trees with skeletal limbs loomed high above them and sheltered the heavens from their sight. They imagined all sorts of evil creatures lurking in the shadows and peering out at them. In the periphery of their vision, they thought they could see red eyes which shone brightly and then quickly vanished. Their thoughts became wild and they saw in their mind horrible monsters running forked tongues over fangs sharp and deadly, waiting with hungry anticipation.

The fog deepened still further until the twins were enclosed in a wall of wet, clutching water which swirled about them. The twisting fingers of the clouds seemed to reach out and paw at their faces, running clammy hands over mind and body. All was still and deathly quiet; not even the call of a night bird broke the ringing, expectant silence.

A twig snapped and Elffled instinctively clutched at her sister's arm, her fingers clamping down like a vice. Suddenly before them, shadowy forms threw themselves out of the darkness and hurled, snorting, across their path.

"Iiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeek!"

The shrill screams of both Elfhild and Elffled rang out into the night. There was a flash or two of white fading into the fog, and then the intruders were gone.

"What was that?!" Elfhild panted, trembling.

"Only deer," Elffled breathed in relief, waiting for her heart to stop pounding so hard and fast. "We probably frightened them," she gasped, "or they were making their way across our paths to procure a drink for themselves from the River."

"Aye, that sounds reasonable," Elfhild remarked, gathering her wits about her. "Only deer," she assured herself, "and nothing more." She hoped their presence was the cause of the fright of the animals, and not something else which might be lurking about deeper in the woods.

They ventured forward but they did not go far, for the fog was too thick. They were stumbling blindly now in a pale, damp world of heavy, bilious clouds, and the trees around them appeared as little more than dim places of shadow. Beneath their feet, the ground seemed possessed of the chill, and the vapors whirled about them, leaving tiny droplets of their wet kisses behind.

"We must stop," Elfhild moaned wretchedly. "I can barely see where I am going!"

"I hope you did not get us lost," Elffled muttered.

"Have a little faith in me!" Elfhild snapped churlishly. "Of course, we are not lost, but it is foolish to venture forth in this dismal fog. Let us lie down and rest until the dawn bids us rise."

A flutter of the breeze stirred the mist and caused the dry leaves on the ground to rattle...


	16. Chapter 15 - Games Played

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written By Angmar and Elfhild

Snuggling against each other, their only bed and blanket their cloaks, the two sisters sought each other's warmth to stave off the clammy chill that bored deeply into their bones. Their fears, while by no means quenched, had at least been subdued by the exhaustion which held their bodies in its grip. Both lay down the day's burdens and yielded, one after the other, to the lure of slumber. As they lay sleeping, the winds whipped up, chasing away the mists. First swirling the strands of their hair about their faces and then touching their eyelids with chilly fingertips, a desultorily breeze nudged the sisters to wakefulness.

"The night has certainly turned colder," Elffled muttered unpleasantly, sitting up and rubbing her upper arms.

"Aye," Elfhild yawned, squinting her eyes and gazing towards the Anduin. "This accursed dampness from the river penetrates to the marrow with its chill. Oh, look - the moon is coming out!" Smiling, she lifted up her hand and pointed skyward.

Like a roguish suitor, the moon winked playfully from behind a lingering cloud. The celestial trickster, in the mood for a lark, concealed himself once again, denying them the sight of his face and leaving them feeling forsaken. A shadow passed over the girls as the undependable sphere then disappeared entirely, playing some capricious game and challenging them to find his dark hiding place.

When at last the frivolous orb reappeared, the silvery light revealed the silhouette of a great, towering figure, his back leaning against a weathered yew, a foot resting nonchalantly against the trunk. Elfhild's heart stopped in mid-beat and she froze in place. Had he been there all along, watching them whilst they slept?

A gasp of alarm hanging in her throat, Elfhild seized her sister's hand in a grip of iron. "Oh Gods, there is someone over there! I think it is an enemy scout!"

Elffled peered into the darkness. "I do not see anything," she whispered uncertainly.

"He is leaning against that tree up ahead." Barely moving, she raised her hand up to waist-level and made a quick pointing motion towards the yew.

"What shall we do?" Elffled's wide, frightened eyes searched her sister's face for the answer.

"I do not think he has noticed us yet. At least he has done nothing that would imply that he had. Let us hope we can slip by him." Taking a deep breath, Elfhild surveyed her surroundings. "I do not see any other men. Thank goodness! Perhaps he is alone, just one soldier or scout." Running her fingers through her hair, she clutched her head, forcing her frightened mind to think, to plan. "All right, this is what we will do. Crouch low to the ground and crawl into the trees over yonder. He is not looking this way, and if we are quiet, perhaps we will escape his notice. When we are certain that it is safe again, we will leave this place as quickly as we can!"

Their hearts hammering in their chests, the sisters slowly dropped to the earth and began crawling as quietly as they could. It was almost a monumental effort to will their bodies to move, for their limbs were trembling so dreadfully that they almost vibrated along the ground like nervous inchworms. Crawling, trying to ignore the wicked little scratches from the sharp thorns and brambles, they moved on hands and knees for what seemed like an agonizingly long distance. At last they came to a spot where the trees grew thicker, closer together. Wriggling on their bellies, they felt the ground dip down into a slight, shallow depression. Shifting their positions, they hugged the ground and peered furtively through the trees back the way which they had come.

Had they been seen? The unspoken question hung in the air like a blade. There was no sound of pursuit, no cry of alarm, nothing to indicate that they had been detected. There was no great commotion, no rush of troops, no sharply barked orders or bellowed curses of orcs. The man had not seen them! They were safe! Sighing in relief, the sisters slumped against the earth, their taut muscles beginning to relax. Now all that they must do was wait.

But then, much to their dismay, their eyes caught sight of the tall figure moving towards their hiding place. Oh no! The scout had heard them after all! His long-legged strides effortlessly consumed the ground separating them. He stopped occasionally, tilting his head back, no doubt listening for them. Soon he came to the thorns and brambles that lay near the entrance to the grove. Pausing, he knelt down, searching the ground and underbrush. Barely daring to breathe, the sisters lay on their bellies as quiet and unmoving as fallen timbers. Though they knew little of hunting, they knew full well that the scout was studying the ground for signs of their path - earth disturbed by their desperate crawling, broken twigs and disrupted leaves, and bits of fabric which had been caught by the thorns and torn from their dresses. They were being hunted down like animals!

Elffled's teeth were chattering, her body trembling against her sister's. Reaching out, she clung to Elfhild as though the other girl could somehow protect her. Intent upon watching the man draw ever closer to them, Elfhild had not noticed the small creature which had fluttered noiselessly down through the treetops. No, not until she felt a leathery wing brush against her head and felt the pull of claws in her hair. Piercing the night in horrifying intensity, a shriek tore out of her throat as she flailed at the bat with her hands.

"Oh, thank the Gods," Elfhild gibbered, close to fainting. "It was only a bat!"

Near the edge of the trees, the scout slowly turned his head around and gazed in their direction.

"Oh, Béma, no!" Elffled moaned in a wailing whisper as she grabbed her sister's arm. "See what you have done? The man has heard us! He is looking directly at us!"

A deep voice silenced their terrified babblings. "It would have mattered little whether you had screamed or not. I knew you were there, for I can smell you," he chuckled. "You have not bathed in some time, and your individual scents are... quite pungent. In any event, your arrival was not entirely unanticipated."

Oh, no! Dread shook the sisters to the very core of their being. They had been seen, discovered, found out! This could not be happening! The girls listened to the words of the man as though in a daze, their minds struggling with the realization that they were about to be captured. As this horrible nightmare unfolded, they were filled with the sickening sense of unreality that often follows in the wake of a great tragedy.

Now they would be taken back to the slavers' camp, where they would suffer innumerable punishments for attempting to escape! The only question that remained was whether the scout was with the slavers or with the army. They would that find out soon enough though.

Yet Elfhild wondered at the man's strange words. Was he merely being snide, as all enemies were when they spoke with their conquered foe? Perhaps, but there was something... peculiar about him... something that was not quite right. Her mind could not explain the sensation in words. It had crept up upon her like the sickly, unsettling mood permeating an unpleasant dream, a profound sense of underlying taint, as though a dark secret brooded just beneath the surface.

"Such a stir about a bat? In truth, the little denizens of the night are gentle, harmless creatures." The side of his face unobscured by his hood was transformed by the moonlight into a pale crescent upon a sky of deepest sable. "Perhaps someday you will discover this for yourselves."

"This accursed man of the enemy is toying with us," Elffled thought resentfully. "He will torment us a while to remind us of our slavery before he finally decides to bind our hands and start us marching again. Oh, by the blessed spirits of the ancestors, can he not just capture us quickly and be done with it? Oh, please spare us the cruel taunting and degradation!"

"Now it is time to get this business concluded," the tall man sighed, his voice reluctant. "Would that there were some other way for this to be accomplished, but, unfortunately, there is none."

He was attempting to make them feel guilty, of course, Elffled presumed. It was a simple game of the mind, much like those which adults play with unruly children. Their village had been destroyed, their mother and faithful dog had been killed, and they had been dragged away from their burning home by savage orcs. Yet somehow they were wrong in attempting to escape, and the punishment for this vile perfidy would be justly deserved. It was the logic of the enemy.

The sisters tried to melt into the earth when they saw that the man was walking towards them. They were too terrified to run, and where was there any escape to be found? Cowering to the ground, they dared not look up, for his presence was overpowering, insinuating itself within their minds, stamping them, marking them like a brand of ice.

"Look up at me," came his deep, masculine voice which was as commanding as the crack of a whip and as pleading as the entreaty of an earnest lover, as loud as the booming of thunder and as soft as a whisper, close and yet far away. "It is good to know that your gaze is fixed upon me. I like to see how I appear through your eyes."

Very slowly the sisters raised their heads. This strange man was terrifying Elfhild. He seemed mad, dangerous even. Perhaps he was not a scout, after all, but some deserter from the army. In an attempt to squelch any thoughts of escape, the orcs had often told the captives cruel tales about such men and what they did to women whom they found wandering alone. She would not put it past this man to rape them and slit their throats!

"The eyes of men are much more useful for visualizing than are those of beasts. While animals have excellent vision, their brains are deficient at processing information. Their interpretations of what they perceive are often faulty. Man is much more analytical." The man inhaled deeply and then sniffed the air, much like some sort of creature. "Were you seeking me?"

"N-no, sir," Elfhild stammered. What was this talk of eyes? The orcs often made necklaces and other ornamentation out of the teeth of their slain enemies; maybe this man collected the eyes of his victims as trophies! What if he were some madman who had been driven from his village, or perhaps a deranged murderer who had taken refuge in the wilderness? She felt sick to her stomach but she knew that if she vomited, at least it would mostly be dry heaves, for there was little in her stomach.

"I did not think you were searching for Death," he chuckled, a melancholy sound that resembled the muffled sigh of a mourner as he viewed a loved one's cold, stiff body laid to rest in the tomb. He sniffed again, slowly winding the night air, processing all the many scents that the breeze gave him. "Stand up... now." He lifted up his long arms, as though he were raising the dead from their graves.

Terrified, the sisters rose to their feet, their arms and legs stiff, unwieldy, as though they were frozen, or were corpses, heavy with the paralysis of death's chill. Far away across a forgotten moor, a wolf's song struck a chord in Elfhild's brain, while Elffled swore that she heard the doleful screeching of an owl which called from some dark grove.

"Then why are you here?" His deep voice murmured like the sighs of thousands of doomed lovers held in the clutch of a tormented kiss. Then he laughed and the sound was a tickling kiss that teased and tantalized the secret parts of both of them, licking, thirsting, probing for mystic juices.

"I sought to escape my fate," Elfhild whispered bitterly.

"I only went with her because I could not let her go alone," Elffled added, for some reason wanting to explain to him that she was hardly a willing party.

"And you think you can escape fate?" He stepped forward, his strange murky presence reaching out to them.

"I do not know... perhaps the question is dependent upon what that fate might be," Elffled replied uncertainly. Unlike her sister, she did not believe that this man was mad. He was merely playing games with them, amusing himself before he delivered them to the slavers.

"I tried to escape it," Elfhild spoke up defiantly, recklessly, perhaps. "What person in his or her right mind wants to be a slave?"

"There is no escape, but what is the harm in making the attempt? Behold what it has already brought you." Tinged with sarcastic amusement, his icy, deep voice mocked them both, promising something forbidden, mysterious, enticingly alluring. Then that promise was withdrawn, leaving them groping for the answers.


	17. Chapter 16 - The Kiss of Icy Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"You play games with us, sir," Elfhild proclaimed in sullen rejoinder. "I suppose you are deriving some sort of pleasure in doing this before you take us prisoner."

"Aye, sir, indeed you do play games, and play them most outrageously," Elffled ventured, attempting a winsome smile. Though her sister would be shocked by the idea, perhaps if she flirted with the warrior, he might be more disposed to treat them kindly. She squinted through the darkness, suddenly having the fancy that she would like to see the face of this intriguing stranger, to touch him... to have him touch her. She knew that he was incredibly tall, with broad shoulders and a deep voice which sent delightful shivers racing down her spine. But was he handsome? She wiped her clammy palms on her skirt. Oh, why was she having these thoughts? If she were not careful, she could almost forget her past experiences with the men of the enemy... Of course, was that such a bad thing? She smiled wistfully to herself.

"From the king upon his gilded throne to the lowest swineherd in a filthy sty, we all play games," the tall stranger replied. "Even the daughters of Eadbald play games."

Eadbald! He spoke her father's name! Gasping in astonishment, Elfhild took a step backwards. "How - how do you know our father's name?" she demanded, fear raising endless questions.

"Quite simply, my dear. The name of your father has been inscribed upon your collars."

"Oh." Elfhild looked down, blushing at her own foolishness. Then, raising her head, she cocked a suspicious eyebrow. "Wait - you mean you can see in this darkness?"

"Darkness?" the man asked, as though pondering some great complexity. "Can you truly fathom what darkness is? Do objects disappear when they are covered by its mantle? No, they are there just the same as they are when the light is shining upon them." A cloud passed over the moon, casting the landscape into total darkness. He paused, and when he spoke again, they both started at his voice. "Being of the Rohirrim, you both should know that there are some who have exceptionally good vision when there is no light. I am one of them," he laughed dryly. Though they could not see his face, the sisters sensed that he was grinning at them.

Elffled was not certain what the strange man meant exactly, but his voice was seductive, hypnotic even, and so unbearably captivating that it did not matter what he said. She hoped that he would ignore her ragged clothing and the grime and stench of her filthy body and find her, if not beautiful, then at least pretty. Attempting to win his favor, she smiled and giggled, attempting an imitation of the flirtatious mannerisms that she had observed in other girls. "You have amazing eyes, sir. 'Tis a pity we cannot see them."

"What charming sweetness lies in the merry laughter of innocent maids! I have had daughters of my own." He paused, and his next words were bitter. "Alas! They are no more!"

The deep sadness in his voice reminded Elffled of her own sorrows, and her heart went out in pity for the man. "Oh, sir, I am sorry to know that," she murmured sympathetically. "Have they been gone from you long?"

"Almost eight decades... but since neither of you can read, write, or cipher, perhaps such a number is incomprehensible to you. Nearly four generations - seventy-seven long years have come and gone - each year falling with grim finality and striking the death bell in my soul. And, to answer your question before you can find the courage to ask it... How old am I? How old, you ask?" Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed, and the wolf in Elfhild's mind bayed with sorrow unending, and the owl spoke to Elffled, reiterating its protest against some unutterable sacrilege. "You do not want to know the answer to that question, and even should I tell you, you would not believe me. Not yet, anyway."

"This man is mad!" Elfhild's terrified mind screamed, and she fought to control her rising panic. She must keep her head at all costs! "Who are you?" she choked out, her throat constricting with fear and anger. "Or what are you? What do you want from us? Are you friend or foe?" Oh, they had to escape from this fiend! But how?

"The question of who I am is inconsequential to our discussion. Neither is the question of _what_ I am. Such small matters fade to insignificance after a while." His words were precise, flat, mere dry declarations of immutable fact. "What is more important is what do _you_ want from me?" He chuckled mirthlessly, icicles crackling and falling to break into nothingness.

"What do I want from you?" Elfhild gasped, almost panting with fear. "I want nothing! Why do you ask such a strange question?"

He moved to stand toe to toe with Elfhild, so close that she could feel his cloak brush against her arms. His head towering above her, he gazed down into her frightened eyes and reached a hand forward to brush over her cheek. Even though she felt like fleeing far away, still she held her ground, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering. Swallowing hard and clenching her fists, she tried to bolster up her courage. She would not let this impertinent riddler turn her into a coward! The chase might excite him, and, besides, she could not leave her silly sister at his mercy.

"I knew you would be bold," he whispered softly, "but you are far bolder than I had ever expected. Your coquettish younger sister, however, comes as an unexpected - and thoroughly delightful - surprise."

Elffled giggled again, far more nervously this time. "I am glad you think so, sir. I must say that you come as quite a surprise yourself..." Flushing in embarrassment, she tittered and brought a hand to her mouth. "Oh! How impertinent of me! Please do not take offense! I am terribly sorry!"

"Sorry that I am such an unexpected surprise... or sorry that you have flirted like the silly little girl that you are and not like the beguiling woman you want to be?" His hand crawled slowly, agonizingly away from Elfhild's hot, burning cheek and then shot out like a serpent, capturing her sister's chin in a firm grasp.

Looking up at him uncertainly, Elffled searched for his eyes, but she could not find them in the darkness of his hood. "Oh, sir, I hardly know any more what I am saying, or even what I mean! The things you say confuse me terribly," she stammered, a flush coloring her cheeks. "But a child, sir?" Her voice sounded hurt and her lower lip quivered in a pout. "Surely you do not consider me that! Though I am young, some girls my age are already married." The flush on her face deepened, and she tried to turn away, but his hand held her secure.

"Laurelissë, my pretty little maid, there is such a demure coyness in your words! Lá, but I do not think you are quite so innocent as you would wish to make yourself appear. Do you understand the implications of what you have just said?" His hand forced her head higher. He was so close to her that she could smell a familiar scent about him, one which she had come to learn was the essence of lust. Her whole body shivered, her flesh tingling with anticipation... for what? She felt confused, uncertain, struggling to understand the meaning of these new feelings which raced through her body.

"Sir, the implications?" Elffled asked innocently in the complete and unaffected candor of inexperience. Then in a dawning flash of painful realization she understood exactly what he meant! "What an absolute dolt I am!" she condemned herself, greatly abashed at her scandalous behavior. "Have I encouraged this strange man? Yes, I have! But who could blame me? I have known nothing except the village boys who were so dull and lackwit that I never even bothered to flirt with them! This man is nothing like them. He is not like the enemy soldiers either, who grab a girl and force themselves upon her!"

Elffled's thoughts swirled through her mind like hapless leaves driven before the storm, twisting and turning before fluttering to the ground. "It is hopeless ever to think that I will marry a man whom I truly love and who truly loves me. Why not a harmless flirtation with this exciting stranger?" The very thought thrilled her in a delightfully naughty way. "Who will ever know except the three of us? Why not a little frivolity before I am sold to some man who is probably fat, ugly and cruel! Oh, this stranger is like no one whom I have ever met before, and he scares me so! But... but he excites me even more!"

"Yes, the implications," the mysterious rogue chuckled, and in the next instant caught Elffled up in his strong arms. Any word of protest was smothered by his hard, cool mouth which pressed demanding kisses upon her soft lips. She struggled against him, her small fists hammering frantically against the impervious wall of his chest. As he kissed her more passionately, her blows slowed, weakening, until at last her fingers could only cling to the material of his tunic as she tried to push her body closer to his. The wolf renewed its keening, shrieking out a long, forlorn, agonizing wail that dwindled off into a gargled groan, and the owl only nodded its head, hinting at some arcane secret that it was unwilling to divulge.

A reluctant voyeur, Elfhild gawked at this scene of torrid passion, her eyes transfixed by the gentle, swaying motions of her sister's hips, her ears filled with the sounds of Elffled's desperate whimpers and moans of pleasure. Oh, this was horrible! She should protect her sister from this dangerous, eccentric man! But, oh, merely watching them kiss was doing strange things to her! Her cheeks burned with a flush which seemed to spread like wildfire through the rest of her body, and she felt a yearning ache in her most intimate of places!

But it was wrong to watch this obscene display, this wanton defilement of her sister by an enemy soldier. She forced her eyes to look away, but she was not strong enough to fight her morbid curiosity. When she again gazed in horror at the scene, he was still holding Elffled, whose hips were thrusting and wiggling against his body in a most provocative rhythm. Though Elfhild could not see everything in total detail, she could hear the man's heavy, laboring breathing and her sister's desperate gasps. "By Béma! This beast must be draining the air from her lungs and the life from her body!" Elfhild's heart throbbed beat by beat in time with his heavy, rasping breaths. With a satisfied growl, he released Elffled and slowly her limp form slipped to the ground.

Elfhild gasped in horror, her hands flying to her mouth. Her gaze darted from her sister's slumped form and then back to the man. "You - you - have killed my sister!"

"Faandrûk, you misjudge me," he murmured quietly, gently. "She is merely asleep, deeply, in calm, sedate tranquility, knowing more peace than you do at this present moment. Why would you deny her that comfort?"

"You monster!" Screaming, Elfhild lunged at him, but he moved quickly and caught her by the wrists. Holding both of them together in one of his large hands, he pulled her arms painfully high above her head, his fingers digging into her tender flesh like the cold clench of steel. His hood obscured his features as he bent his head down to hers. Upon her face, she felt his cool, slow breaths coming in such long intervals that she wondered whether he was breathing at all.

He lifted her higher, his strong hands raising her until her toes no longer touched the ground. Her arms ached from the strain. A ghastly thought possessed her mind. As he had done so cruelly to her sister, he would do to her. He would steal her breath away, draining it from her lungs and sucking her life out like a leech, forcing her into a preternatural slumber! He was incredibly strong and there was no way she could fight against him! "Please, please, do not hurt me!" Elfhild begged, sobbing hysterically. "Have mercy!"

"You are mine, mine to do with as I please," he hissed into her face. "I have waited far too long for you, Faandrûk, far too long! Is it so dreadful for a man to want a maiden? An innocent, lovely creature to bring some semblance of light to his darkened world? And after knowing that he desires her - to think about her, aye, and to lust for her? And to set his will and power into devising ways to obtain her? Faandrûk, I did not come here to play trivial games! Lá! No... there is much more involved here than that!"

Elfhild could barely believe what was happening. It was like some sort of nightmare. Yes, that was it. She was sleeping. She would awake soon. Dreams were the opposite of reality. If one fell asleep in a dream, he would often wake. And that was what she would be doing soon. Just as soon as unconsciousness claimed her, for she was fainting. The trees tilted from side to side and finally darkened altogether as she slipped into blessed oblivion.

***

A kiss brought Elfhild to sudden wakefulness. She found herself held in the grip of strong, powerful arms. Her head was spinning as she looked up into a soft ruddy glow that faded quickly, as though its presence was out of place. A gentle breeze played over her throat, cooling but not refreshing the moist skin. And - oh Gods - his head was bent over her neck, his lips probing, licking over her throat! Whimpering, she attempted to push him away, to escape, but she discovered that instead her arms went up to clutch him about his neck. The nightmare continued - but now it had exploded into a coruscating phantasmagoria of seething, throbbing desires which both tempted and repelled her with their terrifying implications. She clung to the passionate incubus who had become both her lover and her tormentor, holding onto him desperately, while everything inside her commanded her to flee from this unholy abomination.

"The blood of an innocent... so pure... so untainted... how it calls to me! How I desire it!" the dark being sighed. "And how I despise such heady wine!" he groaned. "Ahh, sweet maiden..."

Unseen visions written in a strange music, teardrops of crystallized blood hung like jewels from ghastly white branches, unknown words repeating, their sounds intermingling with the music, the melody fearful, then consoling, lowering, murmuring, then rising, until at last a sighing exaltation escaped his throat and caressed the pink shell of her ear. What was he whispering, his lips so close to her face? Instinctively, she knew that he was preparing her for something, and that this bizarre ritual was the intense preliminary to the realization of his designs. Elfhild sensed his unseen eyes upon her, holding her in their thrall. She heard the sound of cloth ripping as her bodice was torn in twain, the sudden chill draft flowing over her skin. A dagger was poised above her, gleaming like a shard of ice in the pale moonlight, and for a brief moment, she caught the reflection of her terrified eyes staring back at her from the silvery blade. Then the knife descended, slicing through the skin and leaving a thin rivulet of crimson across her exposed flesh. Whimpering, she closed her eyes tightly as the world began to fade away.

Relentless lips were against her throbbing bosom, suckling and searing her flesh. She felt the constant caressing of his tongue as a warm moisture oozed over her skin, spilling down the bodice of her dress and seeping onto her skirt. Was there to be no end of this outrage, of this abhorrent disgrace? But did she want it to stop? His tongue was soft and his grip upon her body was steady, comforting, protecting, somehow... loving in some bittersweet way. Fear was gradually being replaced by a warm sense of safety and security, something she had not felt for so long.

Moaning, Elfhild arched her back and nestled into his powerful chest. Her body yearned for his touch and craved his kisses like a dying person thirsting for water. Deep needs which she had never known that she possessed rose to the surface, compelling her to surrender to him. Perhaps this was what her sister had experienced. Had they both been bewitched by some spell? Yes, that was the only thing that could explain the wondrous sensations which converged deep within her secret places... But yet she did not care! Oh, she wanted this moment to last forever!

Her passion escalating unbelievably, almost out of control, Elfhild cried out in pain as his mouth at last left her bosom. Then, sighing, murmuring, she delighted when she felt his ardent lips possessing hers once again. Willingly she parted her lips to him, and her senses were met with a sudden jolt of shock as she tasted blood on his tongue. But her alarm soon turned to ecstasy as the titillating instrument of delightful torture probed deep within her mouth, and she melted into his arms, her body molding to his.

"Please, please, do not leave me!" she thought desperately, fretting in her mind that he would consider her only a passing fancy, some poor foolish peasant girl whom he would use quickly and just as quickly cast aside and forget. Oh, but could any other kiss be like this, piercing the soul, the mind - she blushed, panting - even the body? But yes, even that!

With a deep chuckle, he let her slide to the ground. "Little girls ought not venture into the woods alone. They should wait until they have ripened and are ready for the touch of the Reaper."

A piercing sorrow rent Elfhild's soul and she sank to her knees in agony. Clinging desperately to his strong, muscular thighs, she began to weep. "Please do not leave me," she sobbed, resting her cheek against the supple leather of his boot.

Gazing down at her, he placed his large hand upon her head and sighed. "To see through the eyes of a mortal is, in its way, a gift, but it is just as much a curse. I am a warrior and I cannot stay... not while battles rage... while death is all around me... while the dogs of war lick the blood from the faces of dying men... while the carrion birds tear the putrefying flesh from the bones of the noble... Can you not hear the wolves calling?" His words stilled and he lifted his head, listening for some sound above him, a sound which her ears could not catch, but which was perceived by her soul.

"I do not understand what you mean, my lord, only that you plan to leave me!" she answered, dazed and bewildered, both from his words and the fierceness of his passion.

"I must depart from you!" he exclaimed harshly. "But..." Did he hesitate? His fingers gently stroked her hair. From far away across the mountains, beyond the valleys, upon the red plains of death, the wolf begin to sing a song she knew was meant only for her. "No!" he shouted into the night, and the trees bent down their heads in despair. The sorrow in that one word would take lifetimes to comprehend, but was understood in just a moment. "Do not torment me with things that cannot be... that might never be! Join your sister in the cool sweetness of blessed slumber!"

"No, lord! Not sleep! Not that!" Elfhild grasped him desperately, clutching his legs, as dreaded sleep ripped her away from him and cast her back into the realm of mortals, into a world of desolate oblivion. She was dying, oh, Gods, she was dying!


	18. Chapter 17 - Sticks and Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

When the sun rose over the Mountains of Shadow the morning of June 19th, the three sons of Fasthelm and Goldwyn had traveled over three leagues from Osgiliath. Making their way through desolate ruins, scattered woodlands, and old pasture fields, they thought of the great quest which lay before them - surviving to make their way back to the Mark. How ironic it was that just a few months previously, two hobbits of the Shire had set their course east for the perilous land of Mordor. Now the three brothers were desperately trying to make their way west, away from the evil land. Although neither knew of the existence of the other, the fate of both groups was interconnected, as was everything else in the never ending, interlocking circles of eternity.

Though he wished that they had covered more miles, Fródwine still halted them for the day's camp in a small clearing near a willow-lined stream. By his calculations, the spot where he stood, near the trunk of a gnarled old willow, was the midway point between the Great West Road and the Anduin. As they moved to stand in front of him, the two younger brothers looked up expectantly into his face. Though he had carefully conserved their meager resources, the food had rapidly diminished. He sucked in his breath, filling out his lungs, and then exhaled slowly. He might as well face it. His next announcement would cause his brothers to bellow like bears who had been robbed of their honey.

"Can we eat now, Fródwine?" Fritha eyed him hopefully. "I am so very hungry, I could eat anything, even frogs!" The little boy rubbed his stomach, his pleading blue eyes turning to molten turquoise.

"Things might come to that, Fritha, so you might as well get used to it and not whine. Rations must be cut in half. Each of you, hold out your hands," he ordered as he took out a small portion of dates and a meager piece of stale bread from the sack which held their supply of provender.

"Is that it? But, Fródwine, we are hungry!" Fritha moaned. He frowned with disappointment as he gazed in disbelief at his palm. "Please give us more!"

"Fródwine, so little? We cannot live on this!" Frumgár looked disparagingly at the meager portion. "Do you have any mushrooms left in the food pouch? Maybe I could stomach eating one this morning."

"Brothers," Fródwine explained regretfully, "I am withholding nothing from you. This is all I can allow you to have. The remainder of our food must be stretched as long as it can be, and, no, Frumgár, I ate the last of the mushrooms last night." He held the canvas bag open, showing there was nothing inside it, then shook it inside out to add more emphasis to his point.

"You think you can find any more?" Frumgár's stomach growled with hunger. His belly felt as though rats had built a nest inside and were chewing and tunneling through the walls.

"Perhaps," Fródwine hedged, "but they do not flourish in great numbers in just any place. The others I found were growing near evergreens, and there do not seem to be any of them along this stream."

"Can we not find something to eat? Maybe we could rip our clothes into strips and make a net to catch fish?" Frumgár asked uncertainly as he finished chewing the remainder of his wretched breakfast.

"A lance! Make a lance," Fritha exclaimed enthusiastically as he darted away to pick up a stick from the ground. Holding it high in his hand, he began jabbing the air with it.

Fródwine slung the pack over his shoulder. "Need I remind you that even if we could catch anything, we have no way to build a fire to cook the meat? Would you enjoy eating the fish raw, Frumgár, or you, Fritha?" He moved aside as the stick went whistling past his head and struck the trunk of a tree. "Be careful, Fritha! You could put someone's eye out like that!"

"You just wish you had thought of it, Fródwine!" Fritha taunted as he ran past his brothers and hid behind the trunk of a tree. Quiet until he could no longer contain himself, the little boy at last peered around the bole and stuck his tongue out at Fródwine.

Fródwine growled, "All right, Fritha! Just do that! Act like a baby! Run away in the woods and stay out there. That great big orc is going to catch you, and when he does, he is going to eat you up! Then at least I will not have to worry any more about feeding you!"

"No!" Fritha wailed and came running back to hide behind Frumgár and clutch his hand. "Do not let Fródwine hurt me!"

"No one is going to hurt you, Fritha," Fródwine sighed in frustration. "Now you two go to sleep. I will stand first watch until it is your turn, Frumgár." He walked forward and squeezed the younger boy's shoulder.

"I am not going to argue about sleeping, Fródwine. I am totally worn out," Frumgár mumbled as he walked over to a large willow at the edge of the stream. A mischievous smile traced over his weary face as he turned back to look at Fródwine. "I almost forgot... Happy birthday, brother... and I mean that."

"Happy birthday, Fródwine," Fritha wished without much enthusiasm, his eyelids already heavy with sleep.

"Aye, today is my twelfth birthday. Do you two know what this means?" he chuckled wryly.

"That you are going to have a party?" Fritha asked hopefully.

"It means I am a man now," Fródwine puffed out his chest and grinned proudly. "I am all grown up!"

"Not unless there have been a lot of changes since yesterday," Frumgár remarked as he yawned and closed his eyelids.

***

The sun had already passed her zenith when Frumgár was awakened by a dull thudding noise. He pulled himself into a sitting position, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Fritha, his left foot jerking, still slept beside him. While Frumgár had given himself over to the slumber of the exhausted, his bladder had filled, stretching the walls uncomfortably. He desperately needed to attend the call of nature. While he aimed a yellow stream against a willow trunk, he watched Fródwine from the corner of his eye. "What could Fródwine possibly be tinkering around with now? Looks like sticks and stones. Probably another one of his mad schemes."

After relieving himself, he walked over to peer down at Fródwine. "What are you doing?"

"I am pondering the making of weapons."

"Out of rocks and sticks?"

"Observe, brother," Fródwine explained as he held up a rock and a short piece of wood. "Think of this simple piece of stone crafted into a warhammer, club, or other weapon."

His brows meeting in consternation, Frumgár crouched down beside him. "But it is just a rock, Fródwine. What do you propose to do? Hit an orc over the head with it?" He shrugged his shoulders. "It is hopeless!"

"Brother, just keep your mind open to possibilities. Who knows what marvelous inventions could come from such simple beginnings! You see that piece of marble over there?" He pointed to a chunk of black marble, rippled with cream, lying close by. "That piece came from Osgiliath. Think what it would be like if we were able to drill a hole through and wedge the head onto the haft." Fródwine touched the piece of wood to the stone, demonstrating his ideas. "There, we have our weapon!"

"But we do not, Fródwine," Frumgár reminded him again. "You are only dreaming!"

"Maybe so, maybe not," Fródwine shrugged. Tossing the rock aside, he rose to his feet and wiped his grimy hands upon the side of his breeches. "But anyway, I was only using that piece of stone as a model to plan by."

"What do you mean?" Frumgár stood up.

"Perhaps over the road and into the mountains, we might be able to find some deposits of flint. If I could figure out some way to make a suitable hammerstone, we would be able to flake off the slivers of flint. Then we would sharpen them into arrowheads! Does that sound any better, brother?" He turned to gaze triumphantly at him.

"Fródwine, flint arrowheads? How do you know about so many things?" Frumgár asked incredulously.

"Because I listen and do not run out to play like a silly girl. Remember the old woodsman from the mountains who used to visit with Father from time to time?"

"Aye," Frumgár nodded his head.

"If you had been paying attention to him, brother," Fródwine smirked, "you would have heard him relate the account of how, when he was a young boy, he found a cave of the 'Old Ones.' Those people from ancient days made remarkably fine spear points, arrowheads and tools from flint, which they had knapped with hammerstones of quartzite or like hard stones. Simple, yes, but very effective. Surely our ancestors wielded the same.

"One day when you were out playing games with those two little girls from the next farm - maybe you were playing dollies, I do not know - the old man showed me some of the relics. If I recall correctly, about that time you returned home. When you saw the weapons, you referred to them as nothing but 'worthless rocks.'"

Fródwine was wearing that arrogant, supercilious expression painted all over his face again. Frumgár hated that look! Every time he saw it, he felt like smashing his brother's nose down and holding it in a wet, smelly pile of cow manure.

"While you were napping earlier like a baby with not a care in the world, I searched the stream bank but could find no flint or chert. When we arrive at the mountains, we will be keeping our eyes sharp for exposed layers of limestone and chalk along streams and gullies. Possibly there we will find flint, chert or quartzite. Besides being able to make real weapons from these materials, we will keep some of the flint. When we find any steel, what do we have then, brother? Think! Flint and steel! Then we can have our fire. Of course, we do not have any steel, yet."

Watching his brother explain in detain his plans for surviving in the wilderness, Frumgár thought that he could see that feral look which occasionally surfaced in Fródwine's eyes. That expression made his brother look like some kind of wild man. "More like a madman," he thought. "He thinks he knows everything, always coming up with some plan or new scheme!" Fródwine was always talking down to him, and he had tolerated all that he could for a while. "But, all wise one, one small matter. How are we going to eat in the meantime?" Frumgár asked sweetly.

Fródwine threw back his head and laughed. "More mushrooms, of course!" Suddenly he grabbed his brother by the hair on the back of his neck and pressed his palm into his face, shoving up his nose painfully.

"Oh, Fródwine, that hurts!" Frumgár protested as he grabbed Fródwine's wrist and tried to push his hand away. "Stop it!" Hesitantly, he hit out with his right fist, landing a tentative jab in his brother's stomach.

Fródwine's eyes gleamed maliciously as he slammed his palm harder into Frumgár's nose, bringing stinging tears to his eyes. "Do that again, little brother, and you will find a knee in your groin!" The two glared into each other's eyes for a long while until Fródwine at last released his grip. "Crybaby! Always crying, like a little girl! Remember next time that babies belong in cradles, not picking fights with men!" Giving his brother a sneering, sardonic smile, Fródwine stepped back. "If you ever think you are big enough to take me on, just let me know, little brother. Now I need some rest, so keep an eye upon Fritha. Awaken me when the sun is close to setting. We will eat then."

"Yes, my liege," Frumgár muttered sullenly, wiping his eyes with his knuckles.

Fródwine turned on his heel and sauntered away, his mocking laughter echoing behind him.

The sound of the quarrel had awakened the five-year-old, who opened his sleepy eyes and yawned. "I am hungry, Frumgár!"

"You are always hungry," Frumgár grumbled. "Fródwine said no food for a while. You are aware what he will do if you try to filch anything from that food pouch." His grave blue eyes promised dire consequences to Fritha if he failed to heed the warning.

"Probably break my arm or my neck," Fritha retorted in a whisper as he looked over at Fródwine, who was snoring under a willow. "He becomes meaner every day, especially now since he is pretending that he is a king! I heard you fighting."

"Although our brother is in rare fine form today, you really should not say things like that, Fritha. Fródwine has things upon his mind, such as seeing us safely home." Deep in thought, Frumgár sucked in his lips, not really wanting to defend his older brother, but feeling out of loyalty that he should.

"When do you think that Mother will find us?" Fritha blurted out suddenly. "I dreamed about her last night, and she was baking bread. I could taste it!"

"As soon as she possibly can, Fritha." Frumgár glanced away before Fritha could detect the skepticism in his eyes. Fródwine had told them that their mother had promised to return to them, but what if their brother was lying?

"I wish she would hurry." His lower lip trembling, Fritha looked down at his foot and aimlessly rolled a pebble to and fro on the ground. "Do you think when she finds us, she can bake some bread?"

"Maybe." Frumgár tried to sound cheerful, but his words were hollow. Attempting to distract his little brother, he pointed to an oak that grew farther up the stream bank towards the west. "Fritha, I am going to climb up that tree. There I can get a good view of the land that lies about us. Now you can either build another castle and soldiers from sticks and stones, or wade in the creek. You must not go downstream, for the water might be deeper there. You could fall in and drown. Now do you give me your word of honor that you will stay here where the stream is shallow and I can watch you?"

"Frumgár, word of honor," the little boy replied, slapping his hand over his heart. Frumgár knew that when Fritha made that oath, he would probably keep it. "I know what I will do! I will catch some minnows for us to eat."

"You do that, Fritha. We will serve them with some of Fródwine's mushrooms."

"Eww!" Fritha made a sour face and shook his head back and forth in disgust. "I wish Mother would get here soon!"

"She will, Fritha, she will... as soon as she can." Quickly looking away, Frumgár felt the tears washing over his cheeks as he walked towards the great oak. "Only babies cry!" he told himself fiercely. "But I want Mother, too!"


	19. Chapter 18 - Out On a Limb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

The oak was an immense elder of the forest, dwarfing the other trees which seemed to gather at its feet like mere supplicants. The girth of the mighty king of the grove was so great that even if five men joined hands, they could not reach around the base. Frumgár smiled. Though its bulk and stature were awe-inspiring, even a young boy should be able to scale its great height. Only a few feet from the ground, the tree divided into two great trunks and the lower branches were within easy reach. Between the two sections, there was a low notch, like a step, inviting Frumgár to climb the tree.

Frumgár gazed up into the boughs spreading high over his head and considered the best way to climb the tree. One side grew towards the west, while the other slanted towards the east, much like two arms pointing in opposing directions. Which was the better side to take? After deliberating with himself, he chose the fork to the west, which seemed to be the easier of the two ascents. Bracing his hands against the trunk, he stepped up into the wide notch. He stood there a while, his right hand rubbing over the rough surface of the gray, lichen-covered bark. The tree went up and up and up, rising far above all the other trees. How glorious it would be if the mighty oak grew all the way up into the heavens, and he and his brothers could climb far away, right into the clouds... and... disappear?

There was only one word that Frumgár found to describe the tree: noble.

Leaning to the side, he lay his head against the gnarled skin of the tree. Well, trees had skins, did they not? At least he had always thought of their rough exterior coverings as being some sort of skin that protected them from the elements, just the way people's skin protected them. He inhaled deeply of the rich earthy odor of wood. He remembered the days not so long ago when he and his brothers had spent hours playing under the sheltering arms of the great trees back in Rohan. Was there any hope that they would ever see the friendly woods near their home again? Were the woods even there anymore? Perhaps the orcs had burnt them all down!

Something rough and unpleasant tickled the back of his neck. Startled, he sucked in his breath, turned around and looked. "Just a twig," he reassured himself. Discovering that he had been holding his breath, he expelled it in a long sigh of relief. "How silly of me! I had not noticed that shoot before," he thought, somewhat nervously, as he extracted a strand of his lank blond hair which had become entangled around the twig.

Frumgár gave the sprout a backward glance and then began pulling himself up branch by branch until he reached the limb that he had spied from the ground. "Careful now," he cautioned himself. "It is a long way down." He stole a glance below him, but quickly looked away as a pang of nausea clenched his gut. Steadying himself by holding onto the branch above him, he cautiously edged his way out on the limb until he came to the middle.

From this height over thirty feet above the ground, Frumgár could see the land that stretched all around him. Turning his head to the side, he gazed at the faint gray line that was the tree-lined bank of the Anduin, now lying far behind him. His eyes then swept over the western plain until they came to the White Mountains, their snow-topped peaks rising to dizzying heights. Far away towards the west beyond his range of vision, the road forged its way northward. Would there be soldiers marching along its winding length? Soldiers marching to the Mark? Soldiers who would pillage and loot and steal away more little children like his brothers and him?

Beyond the indiscernible road, Frumgár saw the shape of a great forest which hugged the base of the mountains and extended up the slopes. Fródwine had told them that the those distant woods would be their destination for the evening. "Another night of trudging through the darkness," Frumgár groaned and remembered the painful corns on his well-calloused feet. Sometime that night the boys must make their way across the military road. What if they met a patrol? What would they do then? The idea terrified him, and he refused to think about it for the time.

Some distance down the stream, Fritha giggled as he caught a minnow between his cupped hands. Frumgár felt comfortable enough on his lofty perch to turn back and wave at him, but the little boy was too caught up in his games to notice. At first Frumgár saw nothing stirring across that broad sweep between the oak and the river, not even the creatures of the air. Then he caught a movement far beyond the oak and the willows, deeper into the copse of trees.

"Fródwine! What is he doing, way out there? He was supposed to be sleeping. Evidently he has slipped away on another one of the solitary scouts that he so loves. I wish he would tell us before leaving, but he has been so moody of late. I wonder where he is going this time?" These unannounced absences deeply disturbed Frumgár. He worried that Fródwine would never return. How silly! Of course, he would return. He must not think such things!

"Fritha!" His voice was agitated as he called down to his little brother, who was still splashing in the creek. "Did Fródwine tell you where he was going?"

Looking up from his play, Fritha sucked in his lips before replying timidly, "No, I did not even know he was gone. Last I looked he was asleep under a willow. He must have sneaked away when I was playing." Feeling uncomfortable under his brother's scrutiny, Fritha shifted nervously in the water. "Did I do something wrong, Frumgár? I stayed right here as you told me and did not go downstream!"

"No, Fritha, you did nothing wrong. It is only that sometimes I become so frustrated with Fródwine's games. I did not mean to take my irritation out on you."

Pushing his damp hair out of his eyes, Fritha smiled up at him, and then dashed away upstream, minnows darting before him as he splashed through the water.

"If Fródwine wants to act that way and throw Fritha and me into botheration, then let him!" Frumgár thought with disgust as he spat over the side of the tree and hit a tattered old bird's nest attached to the limb below. "After he sulks in the woods long enough, he will get over his pout and be right back. While he is out there, though, I hope he sits in a patch of stinging nettles! Would serve him right!" Frumgár thought with vengeful satisfaction.

With a snort of contempt, Frumgár turned his attentions back to the mountains in the west. As he allowed his eyes to roam across the quiet, peaceful valley, his anger gradually tempered. Though everything was barren now, the countryside must have been truly breathtaking at one time, and he hoped it would be once again in the future. Still, as the early afternoon sunlight cast mottled shadows over the ground, there was a certain stark beauty to be observed in the grays and browns. Frumgár was reminded of early spring in the Mark.

The view from the grand old oak was superb. "This tree would make a marvelous place to build a tree house!" he exclaimed softly, talking to himself. "All that would be needed would be wood for the platform, frame, roof and sides. If this were the Mark, we would borrow Father's saw and take down some young trees. There are plenty of them around here..." The branch beneath his feet swayed slightly, as though a breeze had suddenly sprung up. His foot slipped on the limb, but he quickly righted himself. "We could chop off the branches and sprouts that were in our way, then nail up the platform and begin to construct the house...

"Oh!" His right foot suddenly slid off the branch! Clinging to the bough above him, he teetered, feeling for the wood with his foot. The limb quivered even more, and Frumgár's other leg shot out from under him! He was dangling in midair, thirty feet above the ground! If his hands let go... "Oh, my!" he thought frantically as his eyes skimmed over the ground far below. "Oh, MY!" His feet danced over the branch beneath him, slipping off even though he thought his footing had been secure.

"Oh my! Oh my!" He was becoming dizzy. He closed his eyes tightly to keep himself from looking down. His arms were aching with the strain of clutching the branch above with all his might, and the rough wood hurt his fingers. Frumgár had never been a stout lad, and he doubted that he had the endurance to hold on much longer! He frantically groped with his feet, trying to find a stable position. The branch shook. "Like a dog when it flings the water from its coat," Frumgár reflected grimly. He must stop flailing his legs so wildly! Maybe he was making the situation even worse by kicking the branch away in his struggles. Sweat beaded up on his forehead and trickled into his eyes.

He felt for the branch with his toes and found he could barely reach it. Gasping for air, he hesitantly touched the wood with the sole of his right foot. He put the foot down firmly. The branch did not move! His footing was solid! Cautiously, he moved his left leg forward. Soon he would be safe!

He had almost aligned his left foot with the branch when the bough above him gave a violent shudder. He grasped the branch tighter with his hands, but they were weary from supporting his weight for so long. Despite his struggles to hold on, he felt the fingers of his right hand slipping off! "Ohhhh MY!" Frumgár wailed as he lurched painfully to one side. He gripped the limb above him with one hand, his left leg hanging over nothing. His right foot unsteady on its precarious roost, the leg began to tremble and twitch from the strain, and then to his shock and horror, slid completely off the branch. "Ohhhhh MYYYY! I am going to FALL!"

He could not look down! He must not look down! That would be sure folly, perhaps even death! Forcing himself to gaze straight ahead, Frumgár swung his body to the right and wildly grabbed for the upper branch. His fingers grazed it, but then slid back. The branch was beyond his reach by only a few inches! His body swung back and then sagged heavily. He felt the pull of his weight dragging him down, his straining arm and shoulder muscles begging for release. Yet he knew he could not allow that, for to do so was sure death! Gasping for air, his chest heaving, his body aching from the tremendous effort, he must rest a moment and try to catch his breath. If he could not grab the branch this time, he did not think he would have either the fortitude or energy for another attempt.

Gathering up his last remaining strength, he took in a deep breath and tried again. He looked up at the branch and willed himself to reach that unyielding bough. "I will do it this time!" He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain. He reached upward, giving his body a mighty swing as he did. His fingertips touched the branch and he gripped it, holding on tightly. He heard what sounded like a mocking laugh, but he concluded that it was only the breeze. Under his feet, where before there had been only emptiness, there was now solid footing, almost as though the bough had moved beneath him. "Oh my! I have succeeded, and I did not fall!"

He was exhausted from his terrible ordeal, his perspiration-covered body streaming moisture, sweat running down his shoulders and back and trickling down his buttocks. Steadying himself with his hands, he stood upon the branch, his feet firm and secure, his head slumping forward as he gasped and panted.

"Oh, Frumgár, why did you stop! Please do it again!"

Frumgár heard Fritha's high-pitched voice and bubbling laughter from below him. "I want to see you swinging from the limb and kicking your feet. It was as though you were dancing in the air! I want to see you do it again and again!" Fritha jumped up and down, clapping his hands together and giggling.

"Fritha," Frumgár choked out between gasps, "I was not doing that on purpose! I almost fell!"

"Frumgár, what did you say? I cannot hear you down here," Fritha called from the base of the tree, his head cocked to one side. "Speak louder!"

"I almost fell!" Frumgár repeated hoarsely.

"And he would have, too, had he gotten on the wrong side of me!" came a deep, bass voice which seemed to be coming from the tree itself. The sonorous words were spoken as unhurriedly as the slow dripping of rosin from a cut in the great bole of a pine.

"Oh!" Fritha gasped, his eyes growing large. "The tree is talking to me!"

"Fritha, quit making up tales!" Frumgár called down.

"But the tree really really IS talking to me, Frumgár!"


	20. Chapter 19 - From Ancient Acorns...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

"Fritha, the tree is not talking to you! Trees, plants and rocks and things like that simply do not behave that way! And, besides, even if they could, you can barely speak in Common Speech, and I do not think that a tree of Gondor would know Rohirric! Now stop imagining this nonsense and telling tales!" Frumgár's words slowed down momentarily and then resumed at an even more rapid pace. "Maybe you do not realize it, but I almost fell to my death just a while ago! And, oh, drat it all, I just discovered that I have ripped my breeches! They are my only pair, too!" he wailed forlornly.

There was another pause, and when Frumgár spoke again, his voice was angry. "I can hear you giggling from up here! Now be quiet! Ahh, that is much better... Tell you what I am going to do." Warily he looked up at the branches, which seemed to rise higher and higher above him until they almost blocked out the sun. "I will rest here a while, and then I am going to climb higher up in the tree. There is a fine branch which would be a good spot to sit and watch for enemies. Now play nicely and do not wander off and get yourself in trouble... and stop telling me about talking trees!" Frumgár had become worried about his little brother, concerned that their precarious situation had become too much for the little fellow, and that he was sinking deeper and deeper into fantasy. "Once you go too far into the world of make believe, can you ever really come back?" he asked himself.

An expression of injured dignity upon his face, Fritha muttered, "He never believes me!"

"That is because his skull is as hard as the heartwood of an oak! Stubborn as an oak, too." Another laugh rumbled from deep inside the tree, the sound reverberating like the echoing reminder of thunder. A quiver went up the tree from the tips of the roots to the tender shoots on the topmost branches.

"That was strange," Frumgár called down from his newfound perch in the higher notch. "I swear I heard someone chuckling, and then the tree seemed to shiver, as though it were the one who was laughing! But that is impossible! Trees cannot laugh!" He forced a chuckle. "Fritha, see what happens when you distract me with your silly tales! I know that was only my imagination, but I did have quite a scare there for a while! Everything is perfectly fine now, Fritha, so do not be alarmed!" A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

"I am not alarmed at all, Frumgár. Why ever should I be?" Fritha asked, his brow wrinkling in perplexity. "The tree and I are just getting acquainted!" He did not know how he understood the tree's words or how the tree understood him, but did it make any difference? The world was filled with magic, and it was just as common and ordinary to Fritha as the grass and flowers, the woods and streams.

"Not just any tree," the great oak grumbled, and Fritha was certain that two large amber-hazel eyes appeared in the trunk and blinked at him. A long, thin crooked stob resembling a nose jutted out below the eyes, giving the features a lean, penurious look. The bark drew back, revealing a set of gaunt lips and a narrow mouth set between them. Beneath that, the spur of a branch which had broken off years ago extended outward a few inches and formed a chin of sorts. Fritha thought that the knobby chin made the tree appear even more stern and determined.

"No, certainly not just any tree!" The oak closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Fritha saw that they were wide and round like enormous knotholes. "Young man, you may call me Oakheart, for that is the abbreviated version of my name. My real name charts my life's story, which is much too long to recount to you now. The sun would be coming over the eastern horizon, and you would still be sitting here before you had heard the whole thing."

Fritha sat down cross-legged in front of the great tree's trunk, gazing up at him in rapt attention. He wanted to hear every word. "Sir, I am certainly glad to meet you. You are the first tree I have ever known that could talk!"

"That is because you were not listening all the times before, young man." The corners of the tree's mouth twitched up in a smug smirk. "All so hasty, never pausing for a single moment to listen, but no one wants to listen to the trees anyway. It is the curse of our race!"

"Sir..."

"My name is Oakheart!" he boomed so loudly that it was like the sound of a tree crashing to the ground. "Oakheart!" he boomed again. "And I am a..." He did not finish his sentence. "Even if I told you, a little boy like you would never be able to understand, so I will not confuse your mind!"

"Why, certainly, sir, I would be glad to call you by your name, Oakheart. That is a very fine name, and it seems so much like you. I was only going to say that I am listening now, and I am ever so sorry I never listened before. You can be sure I will in the future!" His eyes shining, Fritha's little face lit up in a smile.

"Hmmm... a sensible lad, a sensible lad. Then I shall talk to you, for you have sense enough to want to listen. You will understand that for well over a thousand years of man's time I have been growing here, sinking my roots into the soil, penetrating rocks and sometimes crushing mighty stones, even whole ledges, in my anger. Aye, I am angry, and you would be, too, if you knew all that there is to know! But you do not, of course! You are only a little boy. I will tell you, though, that in that time, kingdoms have risen to flame as bright and shining as shooting stars, only to plunge to the earth and burn into cinders."

"Sir," Fritha interrupted as politely as he could, "perhaps I should not ask this, but how do kingdoms flame like shooting stars?"

"A manner of speech," Oakheart replied irritably. "Do not interrupt."

"Sir, I am sorry." Fritha bowed his head. "I will not interrupt you again."

"Harumph! As I was saying... or trying to say... Nothing is as it once was, anywhere!" Oakheart's woody brow creased in a deep frown. "There used to be villages near this grove, but they were raided and burnt in the spring! There have been too many dreadful things, and I have seen my share of them." The tree seemed to shudder again.

"When I was but a sapling, Eärnil was king of Gondor. The Witch-king came from the far North and besieged the city of Minas Ithil." Oakheart's eyes grew big and wide, and his voice lowered. "After taking the city, he turned the valley into a place of evil and dread, where all who are foolish enough to venture are soon driven mad by illusions and phantoms. The vegetation that grows there now is most unwholesome, for an evil enchantment lies upon the valley. Even if a tree looks sound and worthy, it well could be evil inside, for nothing is as it seems in that dreadful place. Many years have passed since then, and now the evil spreads throughout the whole world, and that is only a little of what has happened!"

"Sir," Fritha exclaimed, not truly understanding much of what Oakheart had told him, "I surely do not intend to go there! It was kind of you to warn me about the terrible place. I must say that I am happy I met you."

"As you can see, little boy, you should never refer to trees as 'just trees!' We are not, hmm, hm, brainless blockheads, like some I could mention..." He laughed as his large round eyes glanced upward to Frumgár, who was in the boughs above studying the distant western horizon.

"Sir, do you mean my brother, Frumgár?" Fritha asked politely. "Well, sir, I admit sometimes that his head seems to be made of wood, but it really is not."

"Dead wood through and through, I will wager!" Another shudder of treeish mirth went up through the oak's trunk, but this time Frumgár was lodged securely between two branches and scarcely budged. "Dead wood, full of rot, bad to the core! Terrible thing when that happens to a tree. They will not last long after their heartwood begins to decay!"

"Brisk wind up here again," Frumgár muttered to himself as he gripped a branch tightly.

"No, no, sir," Fritha shook his head, "his brain is not rotten, for surely I would have noticed it before now... the smell, if nothing else. He is a good boy, and means no harm."

"Means no harm? You say he means no harm, young man? Not the way I hear it, not the way I hear it at all!" The bark around the tree's lips tightened, drawing them into a firm line and pinching them even more severely, as though the wood had grown around a blade of metal. The tree's eyes narrowed until they were thin splinters of subdued light.

"Oh, sir, do not think ill of my brother! I am sure whatever he did, he meant nothing by it!" A frightened, pleading look in his big, innocent blue eyes, Fritha looked up at the tree.

"I should hope he meant nothing by it!" Another shudder rocked the tree from root to limb, and Oakheart's eyes opened wide, shimmering from golden brown to deep amber, the color of oak leaves in the autumn.

"The wind is really rattling the branches up here! If it does not calm soon, I might be forced to climb down," Frumgár complained as he wrapped his arms around the branch and held on tightly.

"Calm down, calm down?" The tree looked incredulously at Fritha. "I have every reason to be upset! Young man, I am placid by nature. I can bear in good humor when folk climb upon my arms, even dislodging some of my bark, but I will not stand for threats! Your brother came clamoring up my trunk, boasting that he would saw off my branches, pound nails into my flesh, and build a tree house on my shoulders! Do not think me hard-hearted, but I absolutely will not put up with such harassment! If he keeps this up, I am going to toss him to the ground! Make no mistake of it, young man! I am good as my word, and my word is as solid as I am!" Oakheart's voice rose in anger.

"Oh, sir," Fritha's lower lip trembled and his eyes watered up with tears, "do not say such terrible things as that!"

"As bad as an orc, as bad as orc! That boy is every bit as bad and perhaps even worse! But you, young man, seem to be made of a different fibre. Are you absolutely certain that you are related to that young rascal? You do not seem like it. Not at all! As different as night from day!" The tree shivered, as though a light breeze had stirred the branches. His eyes shimmered like sunlight reflecting off a stream. "Perhaps you are a foundling and were adopted into his family? Hm, hm?"

"No, sir, I am not a foundling. We are brothers, sons of the same father and mother, Fasthelm and Goldwyn of the Mark. He is named Frumgár and I am Fritha, and I am the youngest of our family."

"What are you doing here so far from home?" the tree asked suspiciously. The bark on the right side of the tree's mouth twitched. "Have you come here to slash off our boughs, chop us all down, destroy the forest, and throw us into the fire and burn us for firewood? Like orcs, I say, like orcs!" All of the oak's many branches seemed to quiver at the same time.

"Oh, no, sir, my brother and I never came here for anything like that! We are running away from the orcs. They are after us and want to take us back as slaves!" Fritha looked fearfully over his shoulder. Perhaps this great tree was not so friendly after all.

"Orcs? Orcs? You said orcs!" The tree's expression became enraged, his eyes almost bulging out, the pupils rimmed in red, his mouth open wide in protest. "I have a score to settle with those scoundrels! All of us do, for that matter, every last one of us, even the willows, and they are capricious folk. Let the slightest thing happen, and all of them will weep and start shaking like aspen! Weak at heart and with little endurance, the willow-folk are brittle by nature, quickly shattering when the storms of life assail them."

All along the stream bank, a long, murmuring sigh, much like a moan, rose up. As Fritha gazed around him, he saw the graceful willows swaying, their long fronds touching, twisting and intermingling, as though they were wringing their hands.

"Young man, see what I mean!" the oak's voice boomed like a drum. "Mention orcs, and the willows will go to pieces! They are weeping, and they have every reason to weep, for our spring was stolen!"

"Well, sir," Fritha piped up, a wispy smile upon his lips, "I should say that all of us were robbed of our spring."

"Exactly right, young man! I knew you were a good sort the first time I laid eyes upon you!" The tree's eyes softened as they looked more kindly at Fritha. "When the Great Enemy sent His thick, corrosive cloud across the land, the foul vaporous darkness covered every bud, every leaflet, every twig, every branch and every bole with a thick layer of foul grime! The tree-folk felt the poison penetrating even to our roots! The willows weep for their seedlings, for they had no hope whatsoever without the sun and rain. Frail anyway, they shriveled and dried up before they had the chance to know the full joy of their youths or even to grow their second ring. It was terrible!" The tree closed his eyes, his lips sealed shut, and when Fritha searched for his face, he found that the bark had completely hidden it from view.

"Please, sir," Fritha pled, reaching out to touch the trunk with his little fingers, "do not go all cold and wooden on me! Please finish what you were saying!"

The tree's round eyes popped open with a sharp noise that sounded like the snapping of a twig. "You have never heard the cries of the leaves in their death agonies! You did not have to watch helplessly as their tiny mouths gasped, opening and closing, as they struggled to breathe through the coating of sulfuric soot hurled upon them by the wicked Enemy! The whole forest wept when the leaves died, first turning yellow and brown before at last fluttering lifelessly to the ground." The round hazel eyes closed as the tree sighed mournfully.

"Oh, sir, I certainly have never seen or heard anything like that, and if I had, I would be ever so sad!" Sniffling, Fritha wiped his nose with his sleeve, and then placed a finger to the tree's knobby chin. When he drew the finger back, the little boy gaped in amazement at a translucent drop of sap on his fingertip. The tree was weeping!

"As stout as I am, I could scarcely breathe with all the filth which had encrusted my skin." The mighty tree moaned sorrowfully. "I feared that my fiber must be weakening, for I was feeling all itchy under my bark. I am not too proud to admit that I feared for my very life. I knew that if the darkness lingered, I would eventually fall prey to parasites, or fungus, wilt or blight. I thought there for a while that beetles or wood mites were burrowing under my skin, but it was only the thick dirt which covered my body. It itched, boy, I tell you it itched! Then when the great rain came and washed it all away, I was as merry as a young sapling. With the great downpour and the return of the sun, I knew down to my roots that there was hope once more for the forest and all the creatures that it shelters!"

Fritha giggled and clapped his hands together. "Oakheart, sir, I am powerfully glad that the darkness has gone away, and I pray that it will never return."

"Young man, you are a wise one for just a young sprout, but your brother now, hm, hm, he is a hasty one..." The tree paused, listening. "Hark, the birds have stopped singing, and no woodland creature stirs! What is that clamorous noise? There are visitors coming to this grove, and unwelcome ones, too!" Oakheart's eyes and mouth suddenly snapped shut, the bark rolling back over them until there was nothing to be seen but his long pointed nose and knobby chin.

"Oakheart! Where did you go? Please come back!" Terrified, Fritha looked about for a place to hide, but it was too late.


	21. Chapter 20 - The Root of the Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

A hulking part-breed uruk and a small gangrel of a goblin, both armed to the teeth with a veritable armory of weapons, stormed into the clearing with a great cry of triumph. When they saw Fritha sitting at the base of the great oak, they pointed to him and cheered in their guttural language. The little boy trembled with horror. "Slaver's men come to get us!" he gasped, his stomach feeling as though it had plunged to his bowels and clenched there in a tight knot.

"Ho, what do we have here? A little piglet without its mother!" laughed the big uruk as he lumbered towards Fritha. The boy rolled to his knees, but before he could get up, the uruk had snatched him in his arms. "Here!" The uruk tossed the screaming Fritha through the air to the smaller orc. "Tie the brat up!"

"Ooo, mate, it'll be my pleasure!" the smaller orc squealed, seizing Fritha in his arms as though the little boy were a ball thrown between them. "I'll truss 'im up pretty as a posy!"

"You let me go!" Fritha squealed as he squirmed and struggled in the orc's arms, desperately fighting to break free. Though he wriggled like a fish, Fritha could not escape from the fiend's crushing embrace.

"Settle down now, you squalling little puppy," the goblin spat out in Common Speech, "or I might just break your ribs!" The grotesque leathery lips of the brute pulled back in a hissing snarl, his foul, putrid breath almost gagging Fritha.

Whimpering, Fritha stared up with wide, frightened eyes at his captor's rough, toad-like skin, the filthy dark hair which hung in stringy clumps, the jagged yellow fangs, and the pointed, cat-like ears - one of which had a chunk torn out of it. He remembered the orc as one of the slaver's cruelest men. The beast had only one good eye, the left closed almost shut, blinded by an ugly scar that cut a zig-zag path from eyebrow to chin. Squirming in the orc's arms, Fritha tried to wiggle free from the hideous foe who held him. The orc only chortled triumphantly and tightened his hold upon the boy.

"Dalgumhâl, you fool!" the big uruk bellowed like a war horn, his words in the harsh orc tongue. "The orders were not to harm them, not so much as one hair upon their pretty little heads! Now there should be two more of these pale-skinned imps around here someplace. Where the hell are they? The uruk glared accusingly at the smaller orc, as though he were somehow responsible for the absence of the other boys. "You are paid to smell them out!"

"The stench of baby horse-boys is thick here, mate, but you can't expect me to find 'em right off, now can you! As soon as we've dealt with this one, I will get on the trail of the others. In no time, we'll 'ave 'em right where we want 'em!" Dalgumhâl inhaled deeply of Fritha's scent and gurgled approvingly. "A pity we can't mess with 'em! We could always cut off 'is little balls and fry 'em up real nice. Remember back in our army days 'ow we used to dine on that sort of fare, that is, whenever we were lucky enough to find it? Makes our seed stronger than it already is! Har har!" He slapped his thighs. "But, divided between the two of us, 'e ain't got enough there for more than a taste, so wot say we cut off 'is prick as well? Har har! The slavers will geld 'im anyway, so we're doin' 'em a favor!"

Though Fritha was unable to understand any of the orcish language, the harshly spoken words still filled him with terror. "What are you saying?" he demanded, struggling to speak in the Common Speech.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" came the sarcastic reply in Westron. Squinting at Fritha, the goblin licked his lips obscenely. "Oo, 'e's a 'ansome one, ain't 'e?" Dalgumhâl laughed, reverting back to the orc tongue. "Lovely, lovely! I know some in our company as would like to play with 'im, but I never had a fondness that way! But now that I look at 'im closer..." The foul little goblin chortled perversely and eyed Fritha as though he were a prime cut of meat.

"Dalgumhâl, I say no!" the uruk snarled. "The slavers would make you pay for doing a trick like that. Cut off your own stinkin' pouch and tool, they would! Then they would go for your eyelids, fingers and toes. They'd hack off your arms and legs next and leave you with nothin' but stumps! Then if there was any life left in you, they'd laugh at you! Last of all, they'd slowly skin you! After you were nothing but a bleedin' piece of meat, they'd tack your mangy pelt up on a tree! You know how vindictive those Haradrim can be! It ain't worth it for a little bite of nothing, I tell you it ain't worth it!" He glared at the goblin.

"All right, all right, you convinced me," Dalgumhâl grumbled. The orc's jutting brow furrowed until his eyes were mere slits, his mouth and jaw line hard. "I would rather 'ave a real meal to fill me belly and a woman to sate me prick any day!"

"Now bind him! We don't have all day!" the uruk snapped. "We need to find the other two!"

"'is brother must be around 'ere somewhere. I can smell 'im! Look! There 'e is! Right up there in the tree!" Dalgumhâl pointed up into the branches, leaving his blind side exposed. While the orc was distracted, Fritha summoned up his courage and clamped his teeth down hard on his captor's hand, nicking into the leathery flesh. He could taste a hint of the hideous, foul-tasting black blood, and almost gagged upon the coarse, metallic taste.

"Ow! The little blighter bit me!" Snorting like an enraged bull, Dalgumhâl slapped Fritha across the face, sending his head reeling back and bringing stars to his eyes. Not daring to move, Fritha cringed in the orc's arms and moaned despairingly as he felt his bladder give way.

"'E pissed on me! 'E pissed on me! I ought to kill you for that, you stinkin' little maggot!" Dalgumhâl howled. Growling fiercely, the orc squeezed Fritha in a savage embrace. A sharp gasp escaped the little boy's mouth as the air was driven from his lungs, and he wondered if his ribs had been broken. "You little scum, I don't 'ave time to play with you now! Maybe later - the trip back is a long one! There'll be plenty of time for fun with me. You might grow to like ol' Dalgumhâl!" Grabbing a handful of loose skin on Fritha's belly, the orc gave the flesh a savage wrench, bringing a shriek of pain to the boy's lips.

Stomping his way to the willows along the stream bank, Dalgamhâl threw the little boy sprawling to the ground. Addled and dizzy, Fritha was hurting too badly to put up any fight as Dalgumhâl rolled him roughly over on his stomach. The orc wrenched the little boy's arms behind his back and tied them together, mumbling obscene curses to himself. Fritha closed his eyes, grimacing with the pain as the orc wrapped the cord tightly around his ankles. A low sob escaped his lips.

"Stop your sniveling, you little beggar! You ought to be glad we caught you! You can go back to your mama soon, but not before ol' Dalgumhâl pays you back for the trouble you've caused 'im!" the orc cackled ominously.

Gasping for breath, Fritha fought the waves of agony which washed over his body. Summoning up his courage and strength, he choked out in Rohirric, "You will not be saying that long, because the elves will get you! This forest is filled with them! They are my friends and they will kill you for hurting me!" He knew his hopeful threat would never come to pass, but it was the first thing that came to his mind.

"Ho, ho, ho! The pig is squealin' in 'is own language!" Dalgumhâl jeered. "But both of us can understand 'is jabberin', cos we was taught by Intelligence, ay', we was! But, ooo, just you wait, you little kranklob-pulal! When we find your brothers, we'll 'ave the three of you dancin' to the splendid tune of the flail as we whip the skin off your legs!" Jumping quickly, his arms upraised, his curling talons extended, Dalgumhâl feigned a lunge at the boy, causing him to shriek and attempt to squirm away.

Laughing, the orc glared down at him, and Fritha was terrified that the monster would do him more harm. But with another curse, Dalgumhâl turned and stalked back towards the oak. Weeping quietly, Fritha turned his head to the side and gazed up into the drooping boughs of the willows. Suddenly, he felt a slight trembling of the ground beneath him, as though a something had moved under the surface. He turned hopeful eyes towards the great oak, but saw only the long, crooked stob and the woody spur that made up the tree's nose and chin. Still, he was certain he had felt the earth tremble, and dared to hope that the old tree would somehow rescue them.

While all this had been going on, Frumgár had been sound asleep on his tall perch. Gradually, though, his sleeping mind became aware of unfamiliar voices, and at the sound of Fritha's loud cries, he came to full wakefulness. In spite of his fear of heights, Frumgár looked down through the branches, and the scene below was one which filled him with terror.

"Fritha! The orcs have found us and captured Fritha! How can I help him? I must help him somehow!" Desperately, he looked around for some weapon, but there was nothing but the boughs of the tree. Now the brothers' troubles had grown even worse, for the orcs had seen him and were gesturing and pointing in his direction. Frumgár groaned, feeling utterly helpless.

He knew he could not help Fritha, but he would not let his brother go back into slavery alone. There was nothing to do but to climb down and let the orcs take him prisoner. Closing his eyes, he sighed in resignation. There had been such hopes of escaping, but now they were all dashed to bits! Frumgár hoped that Fródwine was far away and would be clever enough to evade falling into the hands of the enemy. Maybe at least one of them could make the journey back to Rohan, he considered sadly.

Bracing himself against the fork of the tree, Frumgár stood up and shouted down at the orcs in broken Westron. "I am Frumgár, brother of this boy, and if you promise to let no harm befall him, I will come down!"

"You whining little milksop, speak in your own language, not your tortured wreckage of Westron! At least we can understand it! Now get down here and get down here fast!" the big uruk yelled up.

"I said I am coming down!" Frumgár repeated irritably, in Rohirric this time.

"Oo, oo! Another pretty boy with long golden 'air!" Dalgumhâl snorted, cackling obscenely and slapping his thigh. "We better not let these two in sight of ol' Sharapul the Man-swiver, or 'e'd pull their breeches down and 'ave 'em both right there! Har har! I'll bet the Southrons will make a fortune sellin' these two to some elegant tavern in Nurn, where the lords like to sport with the little dancing bunny boys!"

"No, Frumgár! Stay up there!" Fritha shouted frantically, struggling to work his wrists out of the ropes. Twisting his neck to the side, he strained to see his brother through the branches.

"Be quiet, you stinking brat!" Dalgumhâl shouted at Fritha. "Or I'll give you something to squeal about!"

The big uruk glared up at Frumgár. "Come down now! Try any tricks, and we'll pile wood around the base of this tree and smoke you like a ham!"

"Fritha, I must surrender to them! If I do not, they will burn me out of the tree!" Ignoring his brother's pleas, Frumgár began to climb down the tree as the two orcs stared up at him, laughing scornfully.

Their attention directed towards Frumgár as he made his slow, careful descent from the oak, the orcs did not notice as an almost imperceptible mist began to appear around the bole of the great tree. The hazy vapor thickened and grew, spreading like fog across the clearing and into the trees beyond. Fritha stared expectantly at the oak, but the face of Oakheart was still locked within the gray bark. Yet Fritha sensed that the tree was somehow responsible for the thin cloud of mist. Oakheart was going to help them! Fritha felt joy surging inside him. "No, Frumgár!" the little boy cried out. "Do not come down! Stay where you are! The tree will save us!"

"Wot's this about a tree?" Suspicion rose in Dalgumhâl's voice as he looked all about him and saw the gathering vapor. His one good eye darted about nervously. "Mate, how can this be? The sun is shinin' brightly, and a fog is risin'! It's only late afternoon!" He started backing away from the tree, almost stumbling over a root which he had not noticed - or which had not been there before. Just out of the range of hearing, there seemed to be a low din of voices softly whispering among themselves, or was that only the orc's frightened imagination?

"It ain't nothing but a little haze rising from the stream, Dalgumhâl! We'll soon have both of 'em!" the uruk exclaimed boastfully as he folded his arms over his chest and prepared to wait for Frumgár to climb down from the tree.

"I don't like it!" Dalgumhâl exclaimed anxiously. "I can barely see for the fog, and now the ground is startin' to rumble! Can't you feel it? Forget the boys! Let's get out of 'ere! The place is 'aunted by elves, just like the boy said!" The orc's eyes darted around, searching for a speedy path of retreat, but the path which they had followed into the clearing had disappeared!

Reaching the halfway point on his climb down, Frumgár was horrified to discover that he could not find his previous route down the tree. The mist was all about him now, and it seemed that boughs had grown up out of nowhere to block his way. He heard a hollow, wooden chuckle as the tip of a branch tickled his nose. Struggling to make his way through the trellising limbs, Frumgár found that that new shoots seemed to be growing up about him. He was enclosed in a branchy bower! "I am trapped up here!" he cried out, his panic rising. "I can barely see the tree now and I cannot find my way down!" Summoning up his courage, he looked towards the ground, but everything was now obscured by limbs and a heavy, swirling fog.

"We ain't running from a little mist, Dalgumhâl! We are going to wait right here until that wretched piece of dung climbs down!" The uruk craned his neck, but he could not see the boy high in the tree. The film of vapor was growing heavier, and the ground was shaking, as though great roots were being pulled from the earth. Maybe Dalgumhâl was right after all. Maybe this grove was cursed by evil spirits!

"I'm getting out of 'ere, mate! I'm not staying!" Dalgumhâl turned to run, but discovered that the fog had grown thicker, surrounding him. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted through the murk and tried to find his fellow, but he could barely see his outline through the heavy gloom.

"Help me! Help me, Dalgumhâl!" the big uruk suddenly bellowed in horror. "Something has grabbed me by the foot! I can't move!"

"'Elp yourself, mate!" came the shrill cry of the smaller orc. "I 'ave trouble enough meself! I can't see where I am going! This mist has blinded me, and something is wrapping itself around my leg!" Dalgumhâl shrieked as he desperately tried to free himself.

Fritha could see nothing for the encompassing misty vapors which had turned the day to a dismal twilight. The screams of the orcs and the thundering of the ground echoed through the grove, the horrifying sounds reverberating in his ears. Bound and helpless, he was bounced about by the fierce shaking underneath him. He closed his eyes tightly, not wanting to know what was happening. As he prayed that Frumgár was safe, he felt the feathery touch of a willow frond brush gently against the side of his face.

At last the earth stopped shaking. With great trepidation, Fritha slowly opened his eyes, and to his astonishment, discovered that the orcs were nowhere to be seen. Except for a slight haziness, the grove of willows and oaks was just as it had appeared when the boys had arrived there early that morning. It was as though the orcs had never been there.

The way clear once again, Frumgár quickly scurried down from the tree and rushed to where Fritha lay. "Fritha, you are all right!" he exclaimed breathlessly as he panted from his efforts. He quickly untied his brother, and Fritha sat up, rubbing his rope-burnt wrists. "What happened to the orcs? Did you see?"

"The trees ate them," Fritha exclaimed enthusiastically. "Gobbled them right down!"

"Fritha, do not be ridiculous! What really happened to them?" Frumgár demanded, looking about for their two tormentors.

"Well, I did not see exactly what happened to them, because everything was hidden in the mist," Fritha explained. "I heard them yelling and cursing, but then they just stopped and all was quiet. When the mists cleared, the orcs were not there anymore." Fritha shrugged and then stared Frumgár right in the eye. "The trees ate them! Why will you not believe me, Frumgár?"

"Because trees do not do things like that." Frumgár paused, his voice trailing off "But if any tree could really do such a thing, it would be that strange oak." Frumgár's eyes went to two stobs on the trunk which looked suspiciously like a nose and a chin. The orcs were gone, though, and now they were safe - or were they? This grove had a strange feeling about it, and Frumgár wanted to leave it as quickly as possible.

"I cannot wait to tell Fródwine about this!" Fritha giggled.

Frumgár's brow wrinkled disapprovingly as he considered their elder brother's response to such a wild tale. "I do not think we should," he stated firmly. Already, he could hear Fródwine's mocking laughter in his mind.

"Why not?" Disappointed, Fritha's lower lip extended in a pout.

"Fródwine would never believe us and would only laugh." Pausing for a moment, Frumgár forced a smile. "Let this be our little secret."

"A secret?" Fritha considered the suggestion, then brightened. "I like secrets! This will be our secret. Fródwine is mean and does not deserve to hear about the talking tree, the orcs, and how everything turned out right in the end!" Grinning, the little boy searched the tree's trunk, hoping to see the face of Oakheart once more, but other than the crooked stob and the knobby spur, the tree looked just like any other ancient oak.


	22. Chapter 21 - The Mysterious Malady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

Before the dawning sun of June 19 ever touched the goat-hair tents of the slavers, Esarhaddon's strident bellows had driven Tushratta from a dreamless slumber into surprised wakefulness. Too impatient to wait until his arrival had been announced by a servant, the slaver burst into the tent while the occupants were still in the land of dreams.

"Did the lot of you plan to lie in bed all day?" Esarhaddon's voice thundered accusingly as his eyes roved around the tent's inner chamber. Customarily arising before dawn, the slaver prided himself on never letting the sun's rays touch his sleeping face. He regarded those who lounged in bed until noon as moral degenerates who had completely given themselves over to vice and debauchery. Only the weak lay under the blankets when the sun had risen above the horizon.

"Shakh, is something amiss? Are you ill? Have the slaves attempted another insurgency?" Clearly alarmed, Tushratta rose from the bed, pulled his caftan over his head, and slid his feet into his slippers.

"No, everything is in order, and as you should surely know from the last time you examined me, I am as healthy as a bull. I have come to inquire after the northern woman."

"Shakh, as you can see for yourself, she still sleeps," Tushratta replied dutifully as he motioned to the couch where Goldwyn lay. As Esarhaddon turned to look, the attention of both men was immediately diverted by a loud groan from Aziru.

Rolling onto his side, the bleary-eyed doctor's assistant reached out his arms to clutch the concupiscent sprite of his dream. Moaning in his passion, he cried out, "Maiden of Ishtar!" Unfortunately for him, his joy quickly turned into embarrassment. As his vision gradually cleared, the houri's lovely body transformed into the stocky, muscular shape of Esarhaddon.

Groaning, Aziru considered going back to sleep. Perhaps he could recapture the beautiful dream. "What am I thinking!" he chided himself as he came fully awake. "The great shakh would be offended if I did not welcome him!" Snatching up his caftan, he slipped it over his head and arms and let the brocaded material fall to his ankles as he rose to his feet.

"Shakh, may peace be upon you this morning," Aziru managed to stammer as he bent to kiss the hem of the slaver's sleeve.

"Silim. Peace be unto you, Aziru son of Shamallû." Though the greeting was polite and filled with the customary hospitality, Esarhaddon's irritation with his servant was evident in his voice.

"My apologies, Shakh!" Aziru hastily tried to explain his breach in manners. "I was negligent in greeting you when you first arrived, but I did not wish to embarrass myself by my state of undress. If you will excuse me, I must cleanse myself and do my morning oblations."

"Do whatever you need to do," Esarhaddon remarked gruffly. "I did not come here to see you."

"By your leave, Shakh," Aziru replied as he bowed away. Turning to a small table, he filled a basin of water from a red earthenware jar.

Having fallen asleep beside Goldwyn's couch, Sang-mí came to her senses when she heard the slaver's voice. Quickly rolling to her hands and knees, she groveled upon the carpet before her master. Nib, rudely awakened from his slumbers, protested the disruption. Squalling a vengeful wail, he strained until he turned red-faced and voided his bladder and bowels.

Scowling at Sang-mí, Esarhaddon exclaimed in annoyance, his nostrils wrinkling at the unpleasant odor, "Arise from your belly, woman, and attend to that wailing suckling of yours! He sounds as though a cheetah had dug its teeth into his arse and was dragging him off to his lair!"

"Yes, Master! To hear your word brings instant and joyful obedience!" Sang-mí murmured as she backed on her hands and knees to the mat where her kicking, howling baby lay. Then with an apologetic glance towards Esarhaddon, she stripped the soiled cloths from the outraged Nib. After cleaning the child, she bundled him up again and attempted to pacify his anger by pushing a plump dark nipple in his mouth.

"Now that the confusion has abated, perhaps we can get to the purpose of my visit," Esarhaddon growled, his eyes boring into those of the physician.

"Shakh, while I understand your concern for the Northern woman, I am unaccustomed to being honored by your presence so early in the day. Might it not have been more convenient for you to send a servant to inquire about her?" Tushratta asked, his voice iced with cold formality. He was irritated that he had been given no prior warning before the slaver had burst into his sleeping chambers.

"Apologies, Physician, but in spite of the company of my lovely companion of the night, my slumber was not peaceful. I tossed and turned, much like one in the throes of the kapurdri, and my dreams..." The slaver shook his head, his brow furrowed at the unpleasant memory. "Those I do not wish to expound upon, but they concerned the woman." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I have never had such disturbing dreams as those which tormented my slumber last night!"

A white skullcap now concealing his receding hairline, Aziru ambled back to the small group. "Shakh, I could not help overhearing what you said. Possibly I might have an explanation for your unsettled dreams. Would you care to hear it?" At a disinterested nod from Esarhaddon, the physician's assistant continued. "Thank you, I shall explain. Did your cook prepare peas for your evening meal last night?" Aziru smiled as the slaver nodded. "I thought so! Those are wicked little devils, enemies to digestion! If flatulence is disturbing your slumbers, might I suggest chickpeas as a substitute."

"Chickpeas?!" Esarhaddon bellowed. "I did not come here to discuss chickpeas!"

His face contorted in an expression of pain, Tushratta's voice was strained. "Aziru, your sage advice would be more appropriate at another time!"

"Certainly, certainly, Master Physician!" Aziru's head nodded up and down diffidently. "No offense, no offense meant! A wise man knows when to speak and when he should remain quiet! I will make no more comments."

Esarhaddon directed a long, stony glare at the small man before his hot temper got the best of him. "You bray like a jackass, Aziru! If you can give no better advice than that, perhaps it is time that you sought other employment!"

"Shakh, a thousand apologies! My place was not to speak this way. Forgive your humble servant for his fervor, but I could not restrain my enthusiasm. My concern is only for your well-being, my lord, and nothing else!" His head bowed, Aziru waited for the rebuke which he was sure would come. When the slaver showed no opposition, only polite aloofness, Aziru rushed on to the point which he wished to make. "I have a number of theories regarding the beneficial effects of certain foods upon the health. Though it would be unthinkable of me to suggest discussing them with you at the present, perhaps you would care to listen to them sometime in the future when you have more time."

"Aziru, the great shakh did not come here to listen to your treatises upon chickpeas and their effect upon the treatment of disease." Tushratta's usually calm, dignified voice was impatient.

A reflective expression upon his face, the slaver looked first at Tushratta and then to Aziru. "Though I have little interest in this subject, I will give you leave to speak on, but make it short, Aziru! I have concerns far more important than my bowels."

"Thank you, shakh, a thousand times, thank you!" Aziru beamed with excitement. "My lord, besides their salubrious effect upon the digestive tract, chickpeas - especially the wild variety - have many other medicinal uses. A diet abundant in chickpeas will stimulate a man's potency, causing his seed to be lively and plentiful." He noticed the slaver's thoughtful expression, and felt relived that he no longer seemed angry.

Thoroughly warming to his subject, Aziru's nasal voice took on the zeal of a lecturing physician in a great university. "Beneficial to the man, they are equally so to the female. Those females who have difficulties and are sluggish in the commencement of the monthly flow of blood can find restoration of their health through the amazing benefits of chickpeas. A diet rich in these wondrous legumes can also increase the milk of mothers, making the sustaining substance rich and wholesome, and providing nourishment to help the sucklings grow strong and robust." He cast a knowing glance towards Sang-mí.

Taking a deep breath, Aziru's voice rose with increasing passion. "But there is more, much more!" he cried out excitedly, waving his arms to add emphasis. "The consumption of chickpeas can cause the painful stones which lodge in the kidneys to be dissolved and thus passed. There is no end to the therapeutic uses of chickpeas!" His words at last slowed down, and he took a deep sigh. "I was merely trying to be of assistance! Now, my lord, I shall cease my speaking." Aziru bowed his head differentially and looked down at the carpet.

"We will talk no more of this," Esarhaddon replied gruffly. The room was uncomfortably quiet as the slaver glared over Aziru's head. Then he reflected a moment. His expression mollified as he asked quizzically, "Hmmmmm... Chickpeas actually multiply a man's seed and increase his vigor?"

"Aye, Shakh! They can turn a lethargic man into a lion!" Aziru's small eyes glittered brightly with his own lascivious yearnings. "Men still praise the illustrious stalwart who is said to have deflowered eighty virgins in one night. This feat was accomplished after he had strengthened himself by eating chickpeas and drinking camel's milk mixed with honey! His vigor was boundless!"

"Hmmm... Eighty virgins, you say?" Esarhaddon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "An admirable feat! Then not only the quantity of a man's seed is enhanced, but his passions are also magnified. I am familiar with many nostrums which improve virility and heighten congress, but never before had I heard of chickpeas as one of these remedies... Aye... We will talk of this matter soon."

"Yes, Shakh, it is said that he strove all night in never-ending love battles. Strengthened in the loins by the consumption of chickpeas, he neither rested nor partook of food and drink before he stirred to deflower maiden after maiden. As remarkable as this was, just as astounding is the fact that no matter how many times he spent himself, his organ never faltered, and his seed continued to be copious." Aziru paused for breath. "Ah, but, my lord, we shall speak of this matter another time. Now I must supervise the slave boys as they prepare breakfast and tea." Bowing, Aziru excused himself, backing his way towards the arras.

"Aye, we will speak again, but no breakfast for me, Aziru. I have already eaten. Tea would be appreciated, however." The slaver tried to push the thoughts of the eighty deflowered virgins from his mind, but it was a difficult task.

"A joy forever to serve you, my lord," Aziru replied enthusiastically.

Esarhaddon waited until Aziru had left the room before walking over to Goldwyn's couch. "Has the woman ever stirred?" he asked as he lightly touched her cheek.

"No, Esarhaddon," Tushratta answered. "She has remained exactly as you see her now."

"Damn, Tushratta, can you do nothing for her?"

"All that is possible to do is being done," the physician replied quietly and moved over to stand by Esarhaddon. "If there were a definable physical reason for her stupor, possibly Aziru and I could arrive at a remedy, or at least something that might help. There are many possibilities... I have even considered the chance that she is in the later stages of the sleeping sickness of Far Harad--"

"That is absurd!" Esarhaddon exclaimed testily as he toyed with a strand of Goldwyn's tangled blonde mane. "So golden... her hair is like sunbeams," he mused wistfully.

The physician cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "As I had been about to say, the likelihood that a woman of Rohan could contract a disease of Far Harad is almost impossible. There are many other diseases or injuries that could render a person insensible, but she shows none of the signs of any of them and appears to be in perfect health."

"Then what is wrong with her?" His face reddening in annoyance, a muscle twitched in the slaver's cheek. Releasing the lock of golden hair, he watched as it floated down to the pillow.

Tushratta unclasped his fingers and began to gesture with his hands as he spoke. "Excluding physical causes, we are left with the possibility that the woman is afflicted with some malady of the mind. Many learned men swear that these emotional aberrations - characterized by extreme confusion, delusions and randomness of thought, and sometimes violent behavior directed towards other people or the victim himself - are the work of vile, obscene djinns who have possessed the body of the victim. Then there are beneficial manifestations that are thought to be visitations by the gods upon that person. I might mention as examples of the latter, the Blessed Ones who are used as oracles in the temples of Khand."

Tushratta's almond-shaped brown eyes stared directly into the slaver's dark, dubious ones. Steepling his fingers at chest level, Tushratta droned on in an emotionless voice. "However, do not be misled. There are some conditions - brought on by terrible injuries to the body or by the witnessing of horrors and sorrows - that can mimic both the bewitchments by evil spirits or duplicate the elevated state exhibited by the Blessed Ones chosen by the gods as their prophets and soothsayers. Those who have suffered shocks to the mind can fall into deep melancholy or suffer fits of wild temper, or fall into a lethargic torpor, much in the manner of this unfortunate woman."

His dark eyebrows arching in scorn, Esarhaddon folded his arms across his chest and impatiently tapped his right foot upon the carpet. "Physician, how much longer must I listen to this drivel?"

More than a little uncomfortable in the scorching glare of the slaver's contempt, Tushratta smiled politely. "I was under the impression that you wanted to hear my theories... yes?"

Letting out a sigh of frustration, Esarhaddon snapped, "Continue, Physician, but remember that I do not have all day!" His foot drummed more strenuously on the carpet.

Taking a deep breath, the physician touched his fingertips together again and gazed at the ceiling of the tent. "The wise take into consideration the sufferer's past and present history. You will recall the account that I gave you of the fisherman whose kinsmen perished in the river, yes?" The physician glanced to the slaver, and at his nod, he continued. "The wretched man suffered such a shock to his emotional facilities that he went quite mad. Quite likely his brain could not accept such a shock, and to explain what had happened, his tormented mind invented a bizarre tale of a monstrous djinn in order to soothe the horrors of reality. The onlookers who swore that they had witnessed some supernatural manifestation were merely influenced by his persuasive words and caught up in his delusion."

The physician grew silent and began pacing around the room, speaking as he went. "The mind is amazingly strong, but sometimes," he stopped suddenly in mid-stride and turned to face Esarhaddon, "it just snaps!"

He discovered that Esarhaddon was not even looking at him, but was staring down at Goldwyn. The whole point of his dramatic gesture lost, the physician held his pose for a moment and then let his hand slowly drop to his side. "Knowledge comes slowly, if at all, to some," he mused. "But," his mood brightened at the concept and he smiled enthusiastically, "scientific advancement must go on!"

"Yes," Tushratta went back to his pacing, musing out loud and not really caring if anyone listened to him or not. "Now what happened to the woman when she was in the tomb is impossible to ascertain. All we know for certain is that we heard her scream. We must assume from that, of course, that she was in some distress."

The slaver's head jerked up at that remark, and he turned to stare incredulously at the doctor. "I would think that should be rather obvious," he commented dryly.

The physician held up his right hand, imploring silence. "If you will be so indulgent as to let me continue, Shakh..." Tushratta saw that the slaver was nodding his head slowly up and down in resignation. "When we found the woman, she was lying upon the floor and mumbling in her own language, her arms reaching out as though to grasp something that we could not see. Whether this was a real entity of some kind or a hallucination that she was experiencing, we have no way of knowing." Tushratta noted with satisfaction that the slaver had closed his eyes and was softly groaning. "That will teach him never to wake me up so damn early," he thought triumphantly.

"Now from what the orcs have told me, it seems that the woman was making a conscious attempt to lure them away from her three sons. Perhaps she instructed her sons to run or to wait for her... we have no way of knowing. Certainly she would have been susceptible to an overwhelming guilt from having made such a grave decision, or perhaps she felt overpowered by the responsibility and subconsciously rejected her sons..."

"Damn it, Tushratta! Are you saying that the woman is mad?"

"No, I never made such an allegation. You misunderstand me, Shakh. If you will only be patient for a little while longer..."

"I have been patient too long!" the slaver spat out.

"Please bear with me just a while longer." After his soft-spoken plea for forbearance, Tushratta wove his fingers loosely together again. "Perhaps it was the guilt from leaving her sons that was the final load that was placed upon the figurative camel's back and broke the beast's spinal column. Doubtless the woman had already seen many horrors and experienced much grief. She had no way of knowing what had become of her family in this damnable war. The experience of seeing her village captured and sacked by the orcs would drive all but the strongest into despair. Then there was the grueling journey to Minas Tirith. One woman's mind was crushed when her baby died along the way. The sight of the bone field has already destroyed the minds of several of the captives and the memory certainly will affect others in the future. The mind cannot be subjected to such terror and remain unscathed," the physician explained matter-of-factly, though Esarhaddon thought his voice had an accusatory ring to it.

"Physician, I am no lover of war!" the slaver added defensively.

"No, Shakh, but while you do not prosecute war, you profit by it," Tushratta quietly rejoined.

"It is an honest living!" The slaver's eyes flashed a warning. "But you say all this just to prove that she is mad, or to imply that I had something to do with causing this war?"

"No, Shakh. I imply nothing about anyone's involvement. I am merely saying that I have no way of knowing whether the woman is mad or not until she awakens and I can question her."

"Physician, you tax me sorely!" His tawny face darkened with anger, Esarhaddon stopped tapping his foot on the carpet and clenched his knuckles until they were almost white. Tushratta wondered if he had provoked the slaver too far and that the man might strike him. Clenching his fists tighter, Esarhaddon glared fiercely at the doctor. A wide range of emotions flickered in his eyes, and he struggled to control his anger. Masking his emotions behind half closed eyelids, he exhaled slowly in a deep sigh. Moving closer to the physician, he clasped Tushratta's shoulder with his right hand, a gesture of conciliation.

"Forgive my bad manners, Physician. My anger was unwarranted. I fully realize that you were giving me a professional appraisal of her condition and nothing more. I confess that I find the woman of great interest to me and that has distracted my reason. What, if anything, can be done for her?" The slaver stared intently at the physician.

A grave look on his face, Tushratta sighed heavily. "Well, there are always the nebulous treatments which are sometimes employed in such cases... Trepanning the skull with a drill; bleeding with either the leeches or the knives; cupping her skin with hot glasses; purging her bowels; and scorching her flesh to drive out demons are some of the many. However, I strongly advise against the application of any of them, unless - and this would only be utilized if it were the last resort, mind you - it would be trepanning her skull. My opinion is that usually these treatments do far more damage than good."

"No, not trepanning." Esarhaddon's fingers tenderly stroked the top of Goldwyn's hand. "Not unless there were no other way to retrieve her mind from this dark chasm into which it has fallen. Then is there nothing you can do for her?" he asked, the exasperation evident in his voice.

"I believe I have already answered that question several times, Shakh. Of course, if you are dissatisfied with our care and feel that it is inadequate, you could try inquiring for a shaman amongst the military," Tushratta replied with unruffled dignity.

"You already know the answer to that, physician. I believe that these men are all quacks, charlatans, deceivers, whose only purpose is to filch every last penny they can from the pockets of the gullible."

Quietly slipping through the arras, Aziru cleared his throat before announcing, "Masters, tea and a light breakfast are waiting for you in the outer room. If you would be so good as to follow me..."

The slaver gazed down at Goldwyn's serene face, bowed his head and closed his eyes, praying, no doubt, to some god of the South. After squeezing her small hand in his large one, he relinquished it and laid it upon her breast. He then looked over to Sang-mí, who had finally pacified Nib by filling his stomach with her rich milk. "Wench, you will join me for tea."

"Master, you honor me." Smiling gently at him, Sang-mí lowered her head and watched from beneath long lashes as the slaver bent down and kissed Goldwyn's pale lips. Silently, he turned from the couch and strode into the public area of the tent as the others followed him.


	23. Chapter 22 - A Brief Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

Hot glasses of mint tea in their hands, Tushratta and Esarhaddon faced each other across the low table. Sang-mí, a concerned expression upon her face, sat at her master's side.

"Why so pensive, wench?" the slaver inquired as he turned to admire her dark eyes, her gently rounded nose, and soft, full, sensual lips. He watched the jutting points of her nipples press against the thin material of her gossamer blouse as her breasts rose and fell with her breathing.

"Master, my heart is heavy." She inclined her head, her eyes soft behind her fluttering lashes.

"You will miss me that much while I am away?" the slaver laughed as he traced over her lips with a tip of a forefinger.

"Oh, yes, Master!" Sang-mí exclaimed as she turned her exquisite brown eyes upon him and lay her hand on his shoulder. "I will miss you desperately and long for you constantly! But I am sad for other reasons besides your leaving..."

"What is the cause of these other distresses, Sang-mí?" Esarhaddon doubted that she would miss him very much. There would be many of his men left behind to solace the heat that seemed to rage perpetually in her belly like a furnace. Yet he was curious as to what else troubled her.

"The woman, Master, the beautiful lady from the North! My heart is full of dread for her!" Her left hand clutched his shoulder tightly as her right made the sign against evil. "Last night, I could feel a presence hovering about her, something dark and wicked!"

Though Esarhaddon dismissed the girl's sincerity with an indulgent glance, the physician watched her intently, as though he expected some new revelation. As she felt the doctor's steady gaze upon her, the girl shifted uncomfortably and blushed as she looked down.

"Forgive me, Masters," Sang-mí murmured. "I am only a foolish slave woman."

"Women's mouths are much better used for kissing... and licking... and other pleasant things... than they are for expounding upon matters of which they know nothing," Esarhaddon reminded her before leaning his head down and nuzzling the back of her ear.

"Yes, Master... You are always right. I will confine my lips to better things." Taking the slaver's hand, Sang-mí brought it to her lips, kissing his fingers as a show of submission and adoration.

"Wench, when you accept the true and natural place of women, you will be on the path to true wisdom," Esarhaddon chuckled deeply as he lifted his tea glass to his lips and then ignored the girl. He looked across the table to Tushratta. "Physician, I have received one piece of good news this day - a dispatch by a courier that informed me that two more of the ten remaining runaways have been caught. They were not able to get far before they became confused in the darkness. My men found them hiding in a wood on the outskirts of the old city. Unfortunately, though, the good news is minimized by the unpleasant information that another one of the missing women was found drowned, her body caught in the tree roots along the shore down river."

"Oh, how terrible!" Sang-mí gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. "What a dreadful way to lose one's life!"

"A needless waste," Tushratta sighed as he clasped the side of his face with his hand.

"Master Physician, obviously she chose death rather than submit to a life of slavery... May her spirit find peace," Aziru opined sadly as he refilled their glasses from the teapot.

"Those who take their own lives never find peace but are condemned to reenact their own deaths over and over in the spirit world," Sang-mí murmured dolefully as she once again made the sign against evil. She turned frightened eyes to Esarhaddon, who scowled at her.

"Or they are cursed to wander the earth forever in misery," Aziru shuddered.

"Words can do many things, but they can never bring back the dead," Esarhaddon muttered as he stared moodily down at his tea. "Now with this last accounting, we know that, of the three women who leapt into the Anduin, one has been found dead. The fate of the other two is unknown. Counting these two women, there is a total of seven slaves who have not been recaptured. Still remaining at large are the two foolish women who tried their chances in the river; two young maidens, twins, whose names I cannot remember; and Goldwyn's three sons. We will find them all, if they still live!" His voice rising higher, he lifted his head and shook his fist for emphasis.

"May they all be found safe and unharmed!" Tushratta exclaimed.

Finishing his tea, the slaver signified that he wished no more by shaking the glass back and forth. "I cannot stay much longer, for I must ride out again today, and I do not know how long I shall be gone. Tushratta, remember what I told you; you are to be in charge while I am away. Should I have further orders for you, I will be in contact by messenger. While I spend my time on the chase, you are to lead the train towards Utot-Dalbukot, the first crossroads of Gorgoroth."

Pensively stroking the pointed tip of his beard between his thumb and forefinger, Tushratta meditated upon his employer's statement before speaking. "I do not foresee any trouble. We are at a distance behind the lines and the trumpets of war are far to the north of us."

"That is where you are wrong, Physician, and I do not give a damn that the official word says that Mordor and its allies are winning!" The slaver's voice rumbled in consternation. "While it may seem unlikely, I believe there is every possibility that our foes are planning a counter-offensive, perhaps even carrying out attacks by stealth even as we speak. I will not feel confident until we have put leagues between us and the Gondorians and Rohirrim!"

Aziru's hand trembled slightly as he refilled Tushratta's glass. Glancing towards the tent opening, he whispered, "Shakh, do not let the orcs hear you! You know how zealous they are! Regular fanatics! If they suspect your lack of enthusiasm for the war, they will report you. You know what happens to those who are taken away! They never return!"

"You do not need to remind me of that, Aziru. I know there are ears everywhere, but they cannot hear me from this distance. Now do not interrupt me again." His dark eyebrows furrowing, he scowled at Aziru. "As I was saying, the enemy, though weak, is not utterly destroyed. While the armies of the West have had some of their teeth broken, they retain their claws. There is still power behind that army!"

"Possibly you over-exaggerate the threat, Shakh," Aziru offered humbly.

"A lion humbled is still a lion, but be that as it may, Physician's Assistant, you should remember this. Should any of the enemy come upon the escaped slaves, they will retake them and laugh all the way back to Rohan."

"That would certainly have something to boast about if they did reclaim any of the slaves, Shakh," the physician's chief assistant affirmed with a shake of his head.

"My friend Tushratta over there," Esarhaddon lifted his chin in the direction of the physician, "would advise me to let the escapees go and not spend the time looking for them. Is that not true, Physician?"

"Aye," Tushratta nodded. "Seven slaves and three of them children? What do seven slaves matter? Let them go, Esarhaddon! You risk much in traveling north to look for them, and venturing so close to enemy territory is a damn good way to get killed."

"This is a matter of business, Physician. The blonde twins are probably untouched virgins, and as such are worth fifty of the other women. There are many who would pay much to have the Northern houris in their harems. The other two women are also valuable, simply because there are few fair skinned, blonde-haired women in the South and East. And the boys? Since I plan to take Goldwyn into my household and keep her as my concubine, I feel she would be much more content if her sons were with her. You see it is a great kindness for us to bring her sons back."

"Shakh, I know you are correct. I know the passion that some men have for such exotic women. The sums they would pay for them would be quite large," Tushratta reluctantly capitulated to the other man's logic.

Esarhaddon rose to his feet and waited for the other two men to join him. "I can put it off no longer... I must be leaving. You two will have all the enjoyment while my men and I will have all the danger." Turning his head towards Aziru, who had spilled some of his tea in his haste to rise, Esarhaddon gave the man a joking insult, "Aziru, you perverse little prick, do not burn your eyes out gawking at all that naked female flesh that will be bathing in the river this morning!"

"No harm in looking, Shakh," Aziru laughed politely.

"Master, I am devastated at your going," Sang-mí murmured timidly as she kept her eyes downcast.

"Sang-mí, let me gaze upon your pretty face once more before I leave. Wench, look up at me," Esarhaddon demanded as he pulled her to her feet and held her against his chest.

"Master, I will be praying to the gods for your safety. I shall also burn incense to placate them," she whispered as she trembled against him.

"At this moment, Sang-mí, I would much prefer a kiss," he murmured huskily as he bent his face down and brought his mouth to her upturned lips. She sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck as he passed the moist portal of her lips with his eager, probing tongue. Tushratta and Aziru looked politely to the side as the slaver's hands boldly explored her body. Sighing, Esarhaddon reluctantly drew his lips from hers and rested the side of his face against her cheek. "Do not worry, flower of passion. There will be enough of my men left behind to keep your fires stoked, but perhaps unquenched," he chuckled roguishly. "Your desires will still be burning hot when I return."

"Oh, Master," she whimpered and began to weep, "there will never be any other who makes my heart leap in my breast like a gazelle! My love belongs only to you!"

Pushing her away from him, Esarhaddon laughed and winked at her. "The heart of a strumpet is always tender. A clever whore makes every one of her customers think that while he is with her, he is the lion whom she loves more than all the others!"

"Oh, Master," Sang-mí giggled, "another kiss before you go, please!" Her dark, soulful eyes pled with his.

"One more lusty kiss before I leave," he laughed as his lips crushed down on hers in a hungry kiss. His hand slipped into the cleft of her deep cut bodice and grasped one of her swollen breasts. Sang-mí moaned as her hips arched forward, pressing her mound of love against the swelling knob between his legs.

"Now, Sang-mí," Esarhaddon's voice rumbled in a husky growl, "if I must feel much more of your eager, heated body against mine, I might be delayed here much longer than I had planned."

"I love you, Master," the girl wept as she stroked the back of his neck.

Turning to the physician who had been averting his eyes and studying the top of the tent, the slaver admonished him, "I am trusting the care of the slaves, horses, and other property to you. I can trust you to guard them well. Keep them all safe until I return, and you will be generously rewarded." His fingertips lingered upon Sang-mí's soft cheek before he pulled away from her. Walking over to Goldwyn's couch, he looked down at the sleeping woman. "How I wish that she had awakened before I left!" He glanced back at Tushratta. "Physician, if you can find a cure for her, I promise that you will be paid tenfold as a token of my esteem. Now farewell and peace be unto you all."

Taking a final look at Goldwyn, the slaver turned to leave. Before any of the others could say farewell, he had passed through the entrance of the tent.


	24. Chapter 23 - False Modesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

A brilliant contrast of scarlet, white and fawn against the stark gray and brown trees along the slate waters of the Anduin, Shakh Esarhaddon uHuzziya drew rein on his prancing chestnut mare. A turban as white as an egret's wing upon his head, the slaver wore a scarlet burnoose over a tan and brown striped jellaba and fawn pantaloons. Upon his feet was a pair of tawny-hued riding boots of the finest leather. Hanging from the sword belt at his left side was a scimitar, its hilt and sheath wrought with a brilliant array of semi-precious jewels set in rosettes of gold.

Lusterless in comparison to their master's brilliant attire, his three lieutenants - Ubri, Ganbar and Inbir - were like dull sparrows who remain unnoticed while the peacock struts and displays his exquisite plumage. There was little to distinguish the other three men's dress. All three of them wore drab keffiyehs which flowed down over their dark green burnooses. Each wore cream colored jellabas, pantaloons in shades of tan and fawn, and buff or brown riding boots. Both the shakh and his lieutenants held one thing in common - the steel of their scimitars was sharp and gleamed brightly from the vigorous polishing which was constantly applied to the weapons.

The four men had halted their horses on a small knoll overlooking the river, a lofty position from which they could watch the slave women bathing. A lively breeze had picked up from the west, billowing their burnooses out over the haunches of their horses. The captive women and children, herded by their guards down to the Anduin, glanced up to them and perceived their tawny faces and Southern garb as the manifestation of some bizarre nightmare.

As did most of those of the Southern and Eastern cultures, Esarhaddon insisted upon meticulous cleanliness for his servants, his women and himself. Though some of the Northern women had fiercely protested the indignity, they had been forced to spend the past several hours applying olive oil to the tresses of their children and themselves in the attempt to remove the profuse louse populations which infested their hair.

The slaver chuckled as he surveyed the riverbank below and watched the officious Aziru gesticulating wildly as he engaged in a heated discussion with one of the mothers. Esarhaddon's grin quickly turned to a frown when he espied Tushratta as he gazed morosely across the Anduin. The lovely nymphs splashing nude in the river apparently held little interest for the physician. "His mind is obviously not upon the delightful scene before him," Esarhaddon thought, and guessed the reason for his disinterest. "Probably puzzling over the sickness that afflicts the lady Goldwyn. Sometimes I wonder, though, if the physician prefers the affections of men over women. He and his assistant are very close...'

"I refuse to bathe naked in the presence of men!" cried a tall, big-boned blonde. The resolute woman was almost half a head taller than Aziru and glared angrily down at him. She had a long, thin nose, the tip of which seemed to curl down towards her fat lips. Her round face was red and blotchy; her cheeks were marred with so many pockmarks that they resembled the plain of Gorgoroth. Her blonde hair, its brassy shade emphasizing the ruddiness of her face, was coarse and stiff, as though it had been starched. With her strong jaw defiantly jutted forward, she presented a formidable sight.

"Madame, do not be unreasonable! It is necessary that you all bathe for the sake of health and sanitation. I would think you would enjoy a refreshing bath since you have not had one in so long," Aziru replied encouragingly. "Just wait in line over yonder. The slave boys will come by soon to distribute fragrant soap for you and your children."

"I refuse!" the woman shouted. "You lechers just want to gape at my naked body! I will die before I will allow myself to be compromised like that!" She folded her arms resolutely over her large bosom.

Completely frustrated at this absurd show of ignorance, Aziru scratched and tugged his bulbous nose. Giving the woman an extremely pained, put-upon look, he wiped off his forehead with a linen handkerchief and then sighed heavily. "Guards! Strip this woman and carry her down to the river! You will restrain her while I see to her bathing!"

"No!" she shrieked. "I will kill anyone who lays hands on me!" Clenching her fists, she brought them in front of her defensively.

"Madame," Aziru gave her a roguish grin, "then you must be prepared to kill a great many of us!" As much as he loved the soft, round bodies of women, the idea of compromising this one had never entered his mind until she had mentioned it. Now he found that the idea held appeal.

Four guards, clad only in their sirwals, picked up the screaming, cursing woman, lifted her to their shoulders and carried her down to the riverbank. There, laughing and making ribald comments, they stripped the horrified woman and pulled her into the river. Aziru stripped down to his sirwal, which hung low under his round stomach. Laughing and scratching his hairy belly, he waded towards the woman. Grinning from ear to ear, Hibiz, the physician's servant boy, followed behind with a jar of soft soap and a sponge.

The other bathers moved away from her out into the water and watched in alarm as an unusual scene unfolded before them. Her arms held behind her and her legs spread wide by the stout guards, she cursed them in Rohirric. Aziru chortled as he first wiped the sponge over her neck and breastbone. Next he moved down to each full breast, rubbing the sponge round and round her pink nipples, watching in satisfaction as they hardened.

Her angry protests excited him. The only thing that lessened his pleasure was the sight of several long, blonde hairs which thrived like loathsome weeds around both her pimpled aureoles. "Depilatory," he shouted, "the sooner the better! She is as hairy as an animal!" The woman clamped her eyes tightly shut as he finished cleaning her torso and stomach. Then she screamed again he sponged an ample amount of soap over the golden curls that covered her mound. Looking up at her, he swirled his fingers through the lush growth, smiling as he worked up a lather.

"You are a monster and a fiend!" she accused Aziru as he and the guards laughed. "Your mind is perverted with filth and debauchery! The Gods will never forgive you for this effrontery!"

"And they will never forgive you for smelling as foul as a male goat," Aziru remarked, wrinkling his nose as he moved between her legs and probed her fetid intimate parts with the sponge.

"Damn you!" she cried as she unsuccessfully tried to free her leg to kick him.

"Do you Northern women never bathe?" Aziru moved back from her, calling for Hibiz to rinse her off with a pail of water. "Here, boy, take a good whiff of her. If her little rosey still smells as bad as the back end of a sow in heat, apply some rosewater to it!" Aziru stood back to inspect his handiwork as the guards tightened their grip upon the struggling woman. "You should be grateful that anyone would wash your reeking body!" he exclaimed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"You are a heathen devil, unfit to be with decent folk!" the woman let out another loud wail of protest. "This is an outrage! No decent man would ever stoop to anything so vile!"

Hibiz smiled up at the woman before stooping down behind her. Spreading her wide, he bent his head down and inhaled deeply of her secret valley. "Master, you have done a magnificent job! The woman smells as fresh as daffodils in the spring!"

His brow wrinkling in deep concentration, Aziru studied the woman. "No, Hibiz," he spoke at last, "her body was so filthy that I think she needs to be washed a second time. I still detect a faint odor lingering about her. A woman's secret parts must be meticulously clean and smell enticing to her lord." Grinning at the woman, he winked lasciviously at her. "Madame, just a little more, and I will be finished."

"No! No! No! Please! No! Stop this torment!" the woman sobbed.

Chortling to himself, Aziru worked diligently, ignoring the woman's complaints. Humming a little tune as he probed between her legs once again, he firmly pressed the sponge between her fleshy nether-lips. When he withdrew the sponge, he slid a finger into her chamber of love. The woman gasped and spat at him. He punished her by inserting another finger and thrusting more rapidly. After a while, the woman gave into the urgings of her body, cursing herself for her weakness. Aziru smiled and praised her when she moaned and pushed against his finger. "Sweet houri!" he murmured as the woman groaned and fell back against the guards who were holding her.

"I hate you," she moaned. "I hate you all!"

"No, all women live for the touch of a man," Aziru beamed. "Now I am finished. Truly I have wrought an incredible transformation. Who would have ever guessed how lovely you were under all that dirt. Amazing how much better one feels after a nice, relaxing bath, is it not, Madame?" With a parting tweak on one of her nipples, Aziru turned and walked towards the other bathing women. "If any of you ladies need assistance in any way with your baths, Hibiz and I will be most delighted to help you."

With horrified shrieks, the women and girls splashed as far away from Aziru and his servant as the guards would allow them.

"Well, since you need me no longer, I will be making my way to the shore," he called to them. "If any of you change your minds, I will be sitting on top of the bank. Do not be at all shy about asking." Chuckling softly to himself, the physician's assistant waded out of the water and climbed up upon the riverbank with the servant boy following close behind.

Dried and dressed again, Aziru sat upon a mat and took a goblet of wine from Hibiz' hand. "Never again do I think that persuasion will be needed to convince them of the value of cleanliness," he laughed.

***

High atop the knoll above the bank, Esarhaddon and his three lieutenants had laughed uproariously as they watched the confrontation between the tall blonde woman and Aziru. Wiping the tears from his eyes, Ubri, the slaver's first lieutenant, became serious. "The hour grows late, Shakh... Should we not be leaving?" he ventured.

"Plenty of time," the slaver, who was only half listening, dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. In spite of his underling's suggestion, Esarhaddon was in no rush to leave. He was fascinated by the sight of the naked women, the water glistening on their bodies like drops of diamond. "Remember this scene before you of the beautiful golden haired houris bathing in the river. Never again in your lives will you see a sight to compare with this! Capture the memory and keep it in your minds to warm your hearts on cold nights!"

Ganbar, Esarhaddon's second lieutenant, was softly humming a tune about a sultan's favorite dancer. The song was a lively one which was commonly sung in wine houses in Harad. Occasionally licking his lips, he stared with wistful longing at the bathing women. He thought of his two slave girls back in Nurn. In his mind, they lay waiting upon his couch like luscious, ripe figs ready for tasting, their thighs spread wide, their arms lifted up to him in welcome.

Inbir, the third and youngest lieutenant, stared intently down at the river. He stood up in the stirrups, giving himself greater height as he attempted to distinguish Aeffe's lovely nude body from all the rest of the nubile young females.

"Have you been able to see that pretty little vixen that has set your balls on fire? Do not try to hide the fact that you would like to have your hands under her skirts!" Ubri guffawed.

"Oh, he wants something more than his hands under there," Ganbar laughed at his bawdy jest.

"There are so many women down there that I have not yet been able to find her amongst the crowd," Inbir replied irritably.

"Feast your eyes upon that one!" Ubri exclaimed as he gestured with his hand to one of the women. "Skin fair as a lily! Face of purest ivory set in a frame of gold! Her navel is as a cup of alabaster set with diamonds! And such hair!"

"It was not the golden mane of hair upon her head upon which I was gazing," Ganbar remarked. "I was marveling at the hair that lies above her valley of love! Thick as moss!" He shook his head. "Our women would be shamed to look like unshaved savages!"

"That was the hair I was talking about!" Ubri threw back his head and bellowed out a laugh. "Her fair triangle is covered with such a lush grove that I am reminded of a forest of golden poplar trees in autumn!"

"And none of them destined for rascals such as we are... all out of the range of our purses," Ganbar muttered glumly "Besides, these women do not warm my loins as do the women of my own land. The dark, sultry wenches of Harad burn with the fires of lust, while these pallid women of the North are cold and frigid!"

"There she is! See, down there!" Inbir exclaimed excitedly, pointing in Aeffe's direction. "She is the only one with hair that color, like strawberries covered in golden cream!"

Ubri and Ganbar looked at each other knowingly and shook their heads. Inbir groaned at the sight of the girl who had just plunged under the waist-deep water. He was like a man transfixed by a vision when Aeffe rose again out of the river, the water streaming off her gleaming naked body.

"Her crown of hair is like a silken veil which cloaks her modesty. Revealed only to the sultan, her beauty is hidden forever from the poor beggar," Inbir sighed sadly as he began composing words which he would set to the music of the oud.

"You poor fool!" Ubri chastised him good-naturedly. "It will do you little good to lust after the girl! You will never have the gold to buy the likes of her! None of us will!"

At that moment, Aeffe glanced up at the four men on the knoll and saw Inbir. The hot, crimson flush of embarrassment spread over her neck and face. Bowing her head in shame, she moved her forearm to cover her breasts as the other hand attempted to conceal her pubis. Matching each other with ribald remarks about her unclad body, the guards along the bank leered at her, their fingers twisting into obscene gestures. Their voices swelled up into a roar of taunts in her ears and the hot tears ran down her face.

"Aeffe!" an anguished male voice shouted down from the knoll.

She looked up and saw the handsome young Southron whose dark eyes were filled with kindness and sympathy. Shyness overcame her and she dropped her gaze down to the water. Pushing back the wet, tangled hair which had fallen over one side of her face, she looked up again timidly. The knoll was now deserted, for the four horsemen had turned their mounts and ridden away.

***

"She stirs!" Sang-mí exclaimed as she quickly rose from where she had been playing with Nib. Rushing to Goldwyn's couch, she bent down and saw the woman's eyelashes fluttering slightly. "Lady? Are you awake?" She touched the Rohirric woman's face and noted that the skin still possessed that chill pallor. Sang-mí could not help it when her small frame shuddered slightly.

"Fasthelm..." Goldwyn mumbled.

"Oh, I am so glad that you are awake!" The suddenness of the woman's faint murmurs startled Sang-mí. "You have had us quite worried. Here, I will fetch you something that will make you feel better." The girl walked over to the small table which held a pitcher and basin. Pouring the tepid water into the bowl, she dipped a cloth into the water, wrung out the excess, and walked back to the couch. Bending down, Sang-mí dabbed Goldwyn's face with the cloth and then rubbed the damp material over her hands and wrists, finally drying her off with a linen towel.

"Ælceald," Goldwyn softly moaned.

"I am afraid I do not know what that means, and there is no one here now who can speak your language!"

Goldwyn's eyes suddenly flew open. "Fasthelm!"

"Oh, you said that before! Fahhst-elm... Fahhst-helm?" Sang-mí knelt beside the bed and began rubbing Goldwyn's arms. The lady was still cold, and Sang-mí wondered if she had done the wrong thing by applying tepid water instead of warm.

"Géa, Fasthelm," Goldwyn replied in Rohirric.

The girl looked at her sadly and pursed her lips. "Perhaps you would like some water?" Sang-mí did not wait for a reply but dashed to the table and poured a glass of water from the pitcher. Bringing it back to Goldwyn, she gently eased her head up and pressed the rim of the glass to her lips. "Drink," Sang-mí encouraged, and Goldwyn drank as though she were dying of thirst.

"Who are you?" Goldwyn demanded as she opened her eyes and tried to focus them. As her vision cleared, she beheld a slight young woman whose large brown kohl-rimmed eyes looked at her in concern. The girl had springy black hair which fell in ringlets down her back. The type of dress the girl was wearing - the dark green jacket and blue dress - was certainly not the style that was worn in Rohan, but still the fashion of it seemed vaguely familiar. Briefly she saw a vision of herself wearing a dress much like it. Goldwyn noted the coral necklace set on a silver plated chain which hung about her neck, but it was the dress that arrested her attention. Scandalous, shocking, something no decent woman would wear! Then she remembered! The slaver had once forced her to wear a dress like it!

Sang-mí shook her head. "I cannot understand your words. I am sorry."

"Where am I?" Goldwyn grated out.

"I do not speak your language," Sang-mí apologized profusely.

"Oh, be quiet," Goldwyn spat out, this time in Common Speech. Holding the covers in front of her, she sat up in bed and glared at the woman.

"Yes, Mistress, yes, Mistress! Westron this wretched servant can understand, but she cannot comprehend the speech of Rohan. This slave is sorry that she has offended!" Her face flushing in crimson shame, Sang-mí slid to her hands and knees, pressing her forehead down to the rug. The servant girl was afraid of what this woman could have done to her. Though both of them were only slaves, the blonde lady held a far loftier position in the slave hierarchy than did she. The Northern woman had captured the attention of the great shakh while Sang-mí was only a lowly harlot. "Forgive me, forgive me! Do you want me whipped? I can send for the guards--"

"Oh, what utter nonsense are you gibbering? Stand up, girl! Do not cringe on the floor like some disobedient hound! Where are your wits?"

"Oh, thank you, Mistress, thank you!" Sang-mí kissed the top of Goldwyn's hand and then rose to her feet. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply, relieved that her impertinence had not earned her a whipping. Clasping her hand to her heart, she bowed from the waist. "Mistress, please, drink more water! It has been a long while since you have had any!" Sang-mí held the glass back to Goldwyn's lips.

"Give me the glass," Goldwyn growled. "What do you think I am, some invalid?"

"No, Mistress, no!" Sang-mí shook her head frantically.

"Now suppose you answer some questions," Goldwyn demanded after she had drunk deeply from the glass of water. "Where am I?"

"Mistress, you are in the tent of the physician Tushratta. He is in the service of the slaver Esarhaddon uHuzziya. It is the afternoon of June 19th in what the West calls the 'Third Age Under the Sun.'"

"Who the devil are they?" Her clear blue eyes blazed angrily.

Sang-mí gazed at her in confusion. "I do not know what you mean, Mistress. You have met the shakh. In fact, you taken supper with him. He favors you greatly." She was growing more alarmed. This woman was obviously very distraught, possibly even demented.

"Where are my husband and sons?" Pushing the empty glass towards the girl, Goldwyn swung her feet over the side of the bed.

"Why - why, Mistress, do you not know? Your husband is dead, killed on the fields of Pelennor back in March. Your sons have run away, and my master has gone to seek them." Yes, Sang-mí was sure of it now. The woman was totally mad!

"You liar! I do not know who you are or why I am here, but I am leaving! Fetch me my clothes!"

"Mistress, you cannot do that!" Sang-mí's voice quavered. "Please lie down! Do not tax yourself! You have been... ill!"

"No, I am going! Get out of my way!"

"I must keep her in the bed," Sang-mí thought frantically. She tried to hold Goldwyn back, but the lady shoved her aside, knocking the glass out of her hand. Then, swaying for a moment, Goldwyn toppled over backwards onto the couch and lay there in a swoon, exhausted from her effort to rise.

"Guards!" Sang-mí shrieked as she rushed from the inner chamber of the tent to the public section. "Guards! Come quickly! Send for the physician! I fear the Mistress is dying!"

***  
NOTES

Old English  
"Ælceald" - Very cold


	25. Chapter 24 - Olórë Hwárin Mallë - The Path of Twisted Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

Elffled had awakened before the first light of dawn touched the sleeping land. Wakefulness had found her panting, sighing, and writhing upon the ground, caught in the throes of a blisteringly hot dream of rampant passion. She recalled a moonlit stroll along a meandering path that twisted through a courtyard garden of night-blooming flowers which never revealed their delicate beauty to the cruel rays of the sun. The air was filled with an unknown fragrance that seemed to compel her to breathe deeply of their intoxicating scent. Far above rose the towers of a gleaming, alabaster city, dark banners fluttering in the soft breeze. A tall, handsome man strolled beside her, his powerful arm wrapped around her waist as his playful tongue tickled her ear. Oh, how she had squealed in delight! Then he had turned her to face him and bent his head down to hers. The moonlight bathing them in a magical silver glow, they had shared a kiss, tender at first and then turning more passionate...

Her eyelids fluttering open, Elffled imagined herself still captured in his strong, muscular arms as they lay upon the soft grass amidst the sweet-smelling flowers. Giggling softly, she hugged herself, her forearms pressing against her swollen breasts. She moaned when she recalled how he had caressed her thighs as he slowly drew her skirt up her legs. Her whole being felt alive as she remembered the unspeakably voluptuous sensations which he had coaxed from her body. Giving herself to him totally, she had responded to his every masterful touch.

As she recalled each memory, Elffled felt her skin tingling and her stomach fluttering in sinfully pleasant little tremors. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she shivered in rapturous delight. The point of her pink tongue slid out and slowly licked her lips from one corner to the other. "How wicked it is of me to relish the memory of this sordid dream!" she chastised herself halfheartedly. Coloring with embarrassment, she remembered how his utterly shameless fingers had explored the intimacies of her body, seeking out and probing every sensitive recess... Sadly, though, the dream had ended before she had discovered what might have happened next.

Refusing to face the thought of yet another dreary day of misery ahead of her, Elffled had lain there, luxuriating in her wanton fancies. Her blush deepened as she realized that her body was still responding to the delicious memories which filled her mind with torrid fantasies. Her hand arched up to her throat and caressed the place where her lover had lathed her skin with his tongue and ravished it with his lusty kisses. A frown crossed her passion-infused features, for she found that her neck stung and ached. Beneath her fingers, she felt the puckered ridge of a long cut above her iron slave collar. "Strange," she thought. "I do not remember cutting myself." Oh, well, it really did not matter how she had been injured. Sighing, she closed her eyes, hoping that she would soon find herself back in the comforting arms of sleep, her mind lost to the blissful dream.

But sleep would not return. Sitting up, she glanced over to where her sister had been sleeping, but Elfhild was not there! Terrified at finding herself alone, she called her sister's name. When no one replied, Elffled sprang to her feet and looked all about. Why did Elfhild not answer? Where could she have gone? Was she hurt? What if she had been recaptured? That made no sense, for the slavers would have taken them both. Elffled screamed her name, but once again her cry was met with silence. What should she do? Wait in the predawn darkness until her sister returned? Oh, surely this could not be happening! "Elfhild!" she screamed hysterically. Still there was silence. She could not bear to stay here alone!

Frightened, she ran among the trees and called out her sister's name, hoping that she would soon answer. All of her limbs were trembling, and she felt sick to her stomach with worry. Though it was still dark, the skies were slowly changing from starry sable to cobalt blue. Her fearful eyes darted around wildly, first here and then there, as she surveyed the woods in the dim morning twilight. Minutes seemed like hours, and soon Elffled felt as though she had spent an eternity wandering through a realm of nightmares and shadows in search of her sister. Pushing her matted hair back from her sweating brow, she ran faster until a vining briar tangled about her ankle and threw her to the ground. She lay there panting in despair, sobbing and pounding the earth with her clenched fists.

First peeping over the Mountains of Shadow like the rim of a golden coin, the gentle morning light touched the upper branches of the trees. Pulling herself to her feet, Elffled slumped against the trunk of a tree and struggled to catch her breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she coughed wretchedly, choking on her own spittle. As the dawning sun broke over the horizon in a glorious burst of brilliant radiance, her light bathed Elffled in a cloak of gold, reflecting upon her hair and turning the tresses to pale yellow. She lifted her head up to soak in the comforting warmth, and as the sun touched the cut on her neck, her skin began to tingle and then itch furiously, as though an insect had bitten it. When she scratched at the annoying sensation, she found that all traces of the cut had vanished.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she rubbed her skin. Surely she had not imagined that there had been a wound? Not more than an hour ago, her fingers had grazed over the crusty beads of dried blood! But there was nothing there now except her collar. Perhaps the wicked band had been digging into her skin as she had slept, and in the stupor of awakening, she had only imagined that there had been a wound. Whatever the reason, it was unimportant now. What was true cause for concern was the disappearance of Elfhild.

Another hour elapsed before Elffled finally found her missing sister wandering through the woods as though in a trance. Rushing to her in alarm, Elffled shook her to wakefulness and demanded to know what horrors had befallen her. Elfhild stared mutely back at her with a dazed expression upon her face. Irritated at her vapid countenance, Elffled seized her sister's shoulders and shook her roughly.

"Do not leave me in the darkness," Elfhild whispered, her eyes still staring blankly into space. "I am lost and will never find my way."

"Oh, you silly thing!" Elffled exclaimed in anguish. "I will never leave you, not ever!" Then she threw her arms about her, hugging her and showering her with kisses. "Oh, Hild, where have you been? I have been almost out of my mind with worry! I have been searching for you since before dawn. Now that I have found you, please do not ever do anything like that again!" She squeezed her tighter and buried her head in her shoulder.

"What am I doing here?" Elfhild mumbled as she blinked her eyes into focus. Then the memories of the mysterious stranger surged through her mind like the chill, black waters of the deep, and terror infused her features. Last night after he had left her, she felt alone, lost, and abandoned. Sorrow and despair filled her heart, crushing out all thoughts of happiness. Leaving her sister, she had searched for him blindly, hopelessly stumbling through the darkened woods. Tangling vines and brambles had pulled her to the ground and sharp thorns ripped into her flesh, but she had been numb to the pain. All she knew was that she must find this sorcerer who had cast a spell of bewitchment upon her, for if she did not, her soul would perish, her body burning with unquenchable fire for eternity!

Although she ached for him, yearning for another touch of his strong hand, she sensed that he had closed a door to her. Through the whole long night, she stumbled through dark forests filled with shadows and crossed endless meads filled with strange white flowers. Deep within the trees, she felt eyes watching her, and occasionally she heard soft footfalls and sounds like echoing voices. They beckoned to her, calling her closer, but when she had almost reached them, she heard only mocking laughter. She had just waded through a stream whose waters were colder than the snows which gripped the caps of the White Mountains when she saw, shimmering before her, a beautiful city of alabaster.

Then she had awakened with a start, discovering herself far from where she and her sister had camped the night before. As she saw the first glimmers of the new day's dawning, she realized it had all been nothing but a dream. There, in the grim light of dawn, she had felt like a fool. Beguiled by a wicked sorcerer like some poor, ignorant country girl, only to be betrayed in the end! Burning with shame, she was overcome with guilt, a harsher guilt than she had ever felt before in her life. She had allowed, even welcomed, the touches of a stranger, touches like fire that awakened the passion in her. She burnt with shame at the memory, but at least she knew the reason for her strange dream.

The stranger in the woods had bewitched her, filling her mind with lascivious thoughts and desires, and inflaming her body with forbidden pleasure. She would never admit to herself - nor to her sister - that she still craved every last touch, every fiery kiss, every burning feeling that he had stirred up inside her! The shame was too much to bear! Even now she longed for him to take her away from this horrible place and make her his own. Oh, what terrible evil had she and her sister found lurking in the depths of the dark forest!

Panting, Elfhild shoved Elffled aside and clutched at her temples as a wave of nausea swept over her. "That fiend! What vile, unspeakable things has he done to me? He ripped my bodice in twain, and I felt his hands, cold like ice, groping me in places only a husband should touch!" She looked down at her dress, and to her dismay, she found that the material showed no rips or tears. "Oh, Gods!" she cried out in anguish. "What foul sorcery is this?! I - I saw the knife, he raked it across my flesh--" Her throat constricting, she looked around wildly, knowing that her words portrayed her as a fool.

"Elfhild, what are you talking about?" Elffled asked in alarm. "There is nothing wrong with your dress, just a little dirt!"

"The wound," Elfhild whispered, all the color draining from her face. "It - it has to be there! Oh, Gods, it has to be!" Surely the dread blade which had gleamed in the moonlight like a shard of ice had not been only a figment of her imagination! The wicked gash which streaked across her bosom would be evidence of her attack and near rape! Frantically she tore the garment over her head and stood there naked, gaping down at her heaving chest. Where was the blood, the jagged, crusty scab which would have risen over the gory wound? There was nothing, only milky white skin. But wait! -- was that not a faint pink line between her breasts? As she stood there naked beneath the hot sun, suddenly her skin began to tingle and itch, and the pinkness vanished without a trace before her astonished eyes.

"Elfhild, why have you taken off your clothes?" Elffled asked, confused and embarrassed at her sister's sudden display of naked flesh.

"I - I do not understand," Elfhild stammered, feeling faint. "Surely you saw it? The red mark there - that was where he slashed me! But it has healed, just as the rent in my dress has been mended!" Tremors racked her body and she shook as though she were dying of the fever. "Oh, now I _know_ that he was a sorcerer of terrible power!" A paroxysm of terror came over her and she swayed upon her feet. "Oh, Gods, Elffled, what if he were a demon lord?! I - I could have been attacked by a demon--"

"Elfhild! You are imagining things! I saw no mark on your chest! I think you must still be dreaming." Elffled grasped her by the shoulders and shook her again, even harder this time. "There was no sorcerer, or evil spirit, or demon! It was all in your mind. You are awake now!"

Elfhild passed a tremulous hand over her brow. "Oh, Elffled, it was horrible!" She covered her face with her hands and began to moan and weep. "I - I thought that he had killed you! I thought I had lost you forever!"

Putting her arm around her sister's shoulder, Elffled squeezed her gently. "You have been sleepwalking again, dear sister, as you sometimes did in childhood. What must I do with you? Tie you to a tree?" Trying to make light of the situation, she forced a cheerful little laugh, but it sounded more like a hoarse bark. Never had she seen Elfhild so frightened from a dream.

Elfhild's head throbbed, pounding as though a spike were being driven through the bone, and she clutched at her head, her fingers clawing through her tangled hair. "No, no, it was not a dream!" she cried, her breath coming in frantic bursts. "It - it was like some dark ritual - as though I were being sacrificed to an abominable heathen god. The evil sorcerer, or demon, or whatever he was, lifted his dagger high and pierced the skin over my heart as he chanted in some arcane tongue. The sound throbbed in my skull, keeping time with the frantic beating of my heart! As the chanting exploded in my mind, I thought he might tear my heart from my chest, and I looked up at him in terror. His hood obscured his face, and I saw nothing but blackness above me. Then he bent his head down and drank my life's blood as it flowed from between my ravished breasts!" Shaking and sobbing, Elfhild closed her eyes and wailed.

"Elfhild, you need to sit down! You look close to fainting!" Elffled exclaimed in alarm. Obviously, Elfhild had experienced such a vivid dream that she thought it was real. Often when she was a child, she had been tormented by nightmares like this one, horrible night terrors which rendered her insensible to reason. She would cry and scream, and though her terror-filled eyes were open wide, many times she could not tell that she was awake and that the nightmare had passed. When she came to herself, she often had little memory of the terrifying episode, and would fall into a peaceful sleep held in her mother's arms. This troublesome malady ran in the family on their father's side. Elffled herself had been afflicted by sleepwalking and sleep-talking from time to time, but never to the extent which her sister experienced.

"Close to fainting?" Elfhild's voice shook and came out as a hoarse whisper. "Do I look ill?" Did the evil sorcerer take too much blood in his diabolical ritual? Was she going to die? She put her trembling hand questioningly to her cheek, groping her cool, clammy skin in an attempt to feel her own temperature.

"You do look quite pale," Elffled admitted, her voice tense with worry. "Come, let us sit down." Wrapping her arm around her trembling sister, Elffled led her to a fallen log nearby. Elfhild moaned piteously and sank down onto the wood, bending forward as though she were about to retch. Sitting beside her, Elffled rubbed her back comfortingly. "You had a nightmare; that is all it was. But you are awake now, and everything is all right. Look around you; the sun is shining. Her bright rays will chase away the fears of the night."

"It was not a dream," Elfhild mumbled, choking back her tears. "It was real! Do you not remember?" She searched her sister's eyes for any sign of recollection, but she found none. Her heart sank. What trick was the sorcerer playing, to curse her sister with forgetfulness but allow her to remember? Sniffling, she summoned up her courage to recount her horrifying experience. Perhaps something she said would spark Elffled's memory.

"Last night when we lay down to rest, we did not sleep long, for something awoke us. Through the darkness, we saw a strange man leaning against a tree, watching us. We were terrified and tried to creep away and hide in the woods, but he followed us, tracking us like a hunter. We might have gotten away, but a bat swooped down, tangling itself in my hair, and I could not help but scream. Accursed creature," Elfhild spat out with a little shiver. "I think it must have been in his employ!"

"I had the same dream, just as we sometimes share dreams because we are sisters." Elffled smiled softly. "I saw the bat, too, but it was nothing more than a fantasy. My dream must have ended far differently than yours, however, for no visions of sorcerers or demon lords haunted my sleeping mind." Briefly, she thought back to the dream, and she felt a shiver of pleasure course through her body. She would more than welcome such dreams every night if only to feel the handsome man's kisses, heady like wine upon her lips!

"Elffled, this was not a dream! It was real, I tell you! Oh, why do you not believe me?" Straightening her back, Elfhild sniffed and turned to stare at her sister, her eyes pleading with Elffled to believe. "My screams led him to us. He was so terrifying, a tall, ominous figure cloaked all in black. At first I thought he was one of the slaver's men, and I expected that at any moment his men would surround us and force us back into slavery. Then he spoke so strangely, like no one I have ever heard before. I knew he was a sorcerer when he pulled you in his arms and cast his wicked spells upon you, draining your life away with his kisses."

"Draining my life away? I certainly think not!" Elffled could not help giggling. "Oh, that was the best part of the dream! I fainted from the pure pleasure of his kisses. Then the dream became even more romantic, for the next thing I knew, he had lifted me up on his saddle, and we rode away upon a fine black destrier to a beautiful city set upon a hill. He took me to a garden which was filled with fragrant flowers and splashing fountains. There, beneath the light of the moon, we - we," Elffled paused, wrapping her arms around herself and giggling even louder, "well, you do not need to know _all_ of my dream, Elfhild!"

Elfhild stared at her in horror. "I cannot believe that you _enjoyed_ his shameful caresses!" She did not like the nagging thought which had begun to plague her mind. While she had been sleepwalking, searching for the abhorrent sorcerer in her slumbers, had he been making love to her sister in her dreams? Elfhild could not help but feel a pang of jealousy, but then reviled herself for it. She must try to think clearly. They were dealing with an incredibly diabolical evil which would destroy the mind with lewd delusions and send it spiraling into madness!

Elffled shrugged. "It was only a dream. You should not make so much out of it. But if you would know, I would be thrilled to have dreams like that every night! It would certainly be preferable to living every moment of our lives running and hiding and never having enough to eat." Closing her eyes, she swayed and capered about, dancing to some imaginary melody that played only in her thoughts.

"He has bewitched you, Elffled! Can you not see?" Elfhild cried, her voice rising with fear. "He has raped your mind with his witchcraft!" Why would Elffled not believe her? Could she not understand that he had marked them - marked them both - with an unseen stain - and now that he had them, he would never let them go!

"Raping my mind? Elfhild, you are talking pure nonsense!" Elffled did not want to do it, but she knew she must. Stomping over to her twin, she slapped her hard across the face. "Pull yourself together!"

Bringing her hand to her stinging cheek, Elfhild looked at her sister in shock. "You hit me!"

"And I will hit you again if you do not settle down and act reasonably. Look at you!" Elffled stepped back and motioned towards her sister's nudity. "You are stark naked and raving like a lunatic! I would be mortified if someone saw you." It was times like this when she almost wished that they were not related.

"If I am mad, it is because _he_ drove me to it!" Elfhild muttered sullenly, still gingerly touching her face.

"Here, now, sister, you need to put on your clothes." Ignoring her sister's ramblings, Elffled patted her shoulder soothingly. "Let me help you dress."

"Stop patronizing me!" Elffled jerked away from her sister's hand. "I can dress myself! Stop treating me as though I am incompetent!" Flouncing away, she retrieved her dress and pulled it over her head.

"Well, you are acting like one, or worse - someone who has lost her mind," Elffled thought to herself. "Poor, dear Elfhild! Things have gotten too much for you lately! I am sorry for every unkind thing I ever said to you!" She stayed silent, though, for she did not intend to encourage her in this strange fantasy that had possessed her. Instead, she brushed some dirt from her sister's dress and smiled at her.

"Now, I do not know about you, Elfhild, but I am going to have some breakfast." Elffled walked towards the spot where she had dropped her pack and began placing crumbling pieces of stale bread upon a tattered piece of cloth.

Elfhild stood there, glaring at her sister, her hands placed defiantly on her hips. "I do not care what you say - he was there - and only time will reveal what dread spells he has cast upon us!"

Elffled just shook her head. "Mad! My sister is mad!"


	26. Chapter 25 - Yavanna's Mercies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Growing at the top of the bank was an ancient oak, its enormous bole a marvel to be seen. A grand tree it was, and it would have looked quite majestic and kingly had a mantle of leaves adorned its naked branches. Now it resembled more the shape of a weeping old man, a veteran of a silent battle in the midst of a dreadful war, mourning for better days and a noble past.

Perched in a high branch, a young male song thrush had only one thought upon his mind - courtship. He had chosen a section of the river bank which he would defend against any rival male. He had begun singing before dawn, but he had been met with nothing but silence. Now he cocked his head from side to side, singing his grandest song, which he hoped would attract a female. Though his flute-like voice trilled the most beautiful melodies that he knew, no female answered him, and, frustrated, he despaired that there were no more of his own kind still alive.

Heedless of the small creature who shared the desolation with her, Elfhild felt slightly better since she had eaten and had time to reflect. Maybe her horrifying encounter with evil had been a dream after all. In any event, if she kept talking about it, she knew she would sound like a madwoman. Maybe she really was going mad. If she could not trust her own mind, how could she tell what was real and what was delusion? She noticed that Elffled kept glancing at her, a stupidly cheerful expression plastered upon her face. It was as though her twin feared that she would turn into a raving madwoman at any moment and was studying her face for any signs which would verify that this tragedy was imminent.

In a painfully obvious attempt to hide her anxieties, Elffled bubbled with good humor which was too syrupy ever to be real. "Elfhild," she chirped, "now that we have finished that sumptuous breakfast, we should be going to the river to drink and wash ourselves. Just think how fortunate we are." Her face was contorted in a large, happy toothsome grin which resembled more a grimace than a smile. "While there is not much food, there is plenty of water, a whole river of the elixir of life! Let us enjoy it!"

"That is a fancy way of saying that you are thirsty," Elfhild replied dryly, picking her way down the steep riverbank. "Come on then, follow me and let us go down and get our 'elixirs.'"

It was bad enough to be thought mad, but Elffled's attempts to spare her feelings were insulting, and her exaggerated verbosity was more than she could bear. The elixir of life? How often did she ever use pretentious phrases like that? Elfhild did not even know what the word meant. It must have been some phrase Elffled had overheard the Easterlings or Southrons say. She probably did not even knew what the word meant either, but used it because she thought it sounded grand. This nonsense was so irritating that Elfhild considered punishing her sister with the silent treatment for the rest of the afternoon.

Dispiritedly, the thrush surveyed the two girls as they passed down the slope under his branch. Though it was not in his soul to do so, he had almost given up hope. Despair was not the way of the wise creatures of nature, whose very endurance was a sign of hope. He breathed in deeply, puffing out his buff breast speckled with brown, and sang again his clear, flute-like melody. His head cocked, he listened for a reply, and then he saw _her_ , her form silhouetted against the sky.

The bride had come! Now there was nothing else of importance in his world. Spring had been delayed, and there was much to plan. They would build a cup-shaped nest lined with clay in a hedge or bush. His mate would lay four or five bright glossy blue eggs with black spots. These would hatch in about a fortnight, and then there would be young ones to feed and protect. In spite of the grim spring, they could still raise one or two broods that year. He puffed out his chest and sang out a song of joy and triumph. Once again, winter's chill death had been defeated, and the world was bright with reborn promise.

In far away Aman, the Blessed Realm, Yavanna, patroness of nature, thought of the small pair and gave them her richest blessings. Then she smiled, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she smirked sweetly, for indeed that was a smirk upon her lovely green face. Victory was always to be relished, and the powers of benevolent creation had triumphed. Once again, the upstart Sauron had been put in his place. "Let him hear the whole chorus of creation, all the way to his dark and dismal Tower!" A pixyish grin curled her sweet lips as she purred, "And may he go deaf on hearing!"

But far away from gods and goddesses and mighty powers - and not being greatly aware or caring of their existences - two young girls knelt by the waters of the Anduin. Scooping her hands into the water, Elfhild washed her tear-swollen face and cooled her parched throat. The warm sunshine felt good upon her skin and comforted her spirit, driving away the fears of the night.

As the thin, spectral shadows of the leafless branches arced over them like the bony arms of some animated skeleton, a deep feeling of sadness tightened Elfhild's chest. Last year at this time, the riverbank would have been a verdant swath of green. Many of the birds would have already reared one hatching of young and be well on their way to starting another. But now, save for the solitary pair of song thrushes above them, the sisters were alone.

Elfhild reached out a finger and traced around one of the deep whorls in the gnarled old root alongside the bank. With a twinge of pain in her heart, she recollected how only a few years ago, she would have turned the woody nook into a secret hiding place for some small plaything. A wistful, bittersweet smile upon her face, she turned her eyes upward to stare at the pair of birds, remembering the welcome return of the birds in the spring. Sighing with regret, she looked out over the water.

Perched in the leafless bower, the male thrush sensed an approaching danger. All wooing stopped. A loud, frantic "Tchuck-tchuck-tchuck!" alerted his bride, and quickly he flew with her away to safety. A delicate buff feather floated slowly to the ground, the only proof that the pair had ever been there. Idly Elfhild picked it up and then let it slip from her fingers.

There, high upon the bank above the sisters, a horse snorted softly.

"Did you hear that?" Elffled whispered, her eyes wide and her hushed voice filled with alarm.

"He has come for me!" The words slipped past Elfhild's trembling lips before she even realized she had said them. Memories of last night struck her like a bolt of lightning, and horror coursed through her veins. A faltering hand went to her neck, for her breath seemed to have caught in her throat. Her heart pounding painfully in her chest, she clenched her hand and found that it was clammy. What could she do if he had come back? How could two mere girls defend themselves against a sorcerer who indulged in dark rituals and drank human blood?

Silently sinking to their hands and knees, the sisters stealthily crept into a shallow trench formed by the oak's massive roots. There they lay, neither one daring to move, struggling to restrain their heavy panting breaths. Their wide, straining eyes watched with silent dread, but they could see nothing, for the great tree blocked their view.

"He is coming for me," Elfhild whispered, her mind screaming as she trembled against the dirt. She swallowed painfully, the sides of her dry throat seeming to cling together. "Oh, by the Gods, he is coming for me! He wants to finish what he began last night and take me for his bride!"

"Be quiet!" Elffled hissed, certain now that her sister had lost her mind. "If you keep this up," she warned, "I will beg your phantom to take you, even though he does not actually exist!"

Elfhild's senses were torn by conflicting desires - to flee wildly with little heed of where she was going, or to faint dead away and escape into the realm of dark oblivion. A third tumultuous emotion began to wrestle for control of her mind as she remembered being held in his powerful arms, the press of his lips against hers as he kissed her passionately, the maddening sensation of his tongue lathing the blood from her chest. "Come to me, my bridegroom!" she found herself silently praying as she clutched at her heart. "I am ready! ...No, no! What am I thinking?" She shook her head, horrified that such an intrusive thought could ever worm its way into her brain. She reached out for Elffled's hand, and when their fingers interlaced together, she clung to it desperately.

The horse snorted loudly, unleashing a gusty spew of irritating dust from its nostrils. A deep, masculine voice murmured softly, "Ka'adara, lal-gu Ka'adara!" as he stroked his mount's arched neck. The horse tossed its head, sending the long, dangling yellow tassels on its head stall bobbing merrily. The girls heard the creak of leather as the rider shifted his position in the saddle.

Eager to find his prey, Esarhaddon, slave trader, purveyor of human flesh, had galloped his horse away, outdistancing his bodyguards and leaving them far behind in his dust. Halting his heavily lathered chestnut mare on top of the riverbank, he studied the slope below him. His eyes slowly followed the course of the Anduin northward and then southward. The mare was fidgety, flicking her ears forward and backward. Such behavior was unlike the steady mare, and Esarhaddon wondered at the cause of her agitation. Below them was nothing but more blighted vegetation.

"Nothing you need to be alarmed about, my beauty," he reassured her with soft, low words.

Gazing up into the branches, he marveled at the bizarre growth, so much like the tortured scrub and thorns that grew in the empty places of the desert. A fly landed on the right side of the mare's neck, and her skin rippled in irritation. She snorted when the pest, thirsty for a taste of her blood, sank its stinger into her delicate flesh. "Ka'adara," the deep voice soothed her as his hand smashed the insect into bloody oblivion. The mare was still nervous, flicking her ears back and forth, listening to some sound unheard by the slaver. She looked back at him and pawed her hoof restlessly, waiting for some signal from her master.

Perhaps he should dismount and investigate the riverbank. His eyes darted down, judging the steepness of the grade, and he determined that there would be nothing down there that was worth the climb. The sun glistened upon the face of the river, turning the waters into a gray glittering shield. "My Fox," Esarhaddon spoke in the language of the Haradrim, "I know your thirst is great, but you must wait a while longer." Perhaps farther up the river he could find a gentler slope that would not pose such an obstacle.

Elfhild recognized the accursed language of the South spoken from the commanding lips of the head slaver. "Only a Southron," she sighed in relief. "It is not the Dark Stranger, come to take my body and soul." She resisted the urge to laugh foolishly.

"Only a Southron?" Elffled queried softly, raising her eyebrows. "They are the real enemies, not some phantom which torments the sleeping mind!"

"Yes, yes, you are right, of course." Elfhild shook her head to clear her mind and forced it to focus upon their situation. They were still in grave peril, even though their foe was a living man made of the same mortal flesh as any other. "What do you suppose he is saying?" she whispered.

"Probably something incredibly wicked... but is not his voice wonderful?" Elffled sighed.

Far different from the harsh, guttural speech of the orcs, the language of the Haradrim was tantalizingly beautiful, its syllables rich with the flavor of poetry. Possibly the fact that the women of the North understood only a few of its words added to its allure. Even the most lusterless and commonplace of sentences could seem dignified, urbane, cultured, and yet exotic and romantic when versed in its tongue.

The language of the men of the South could be a perilous language, though, fraught with danger for impressionable young maidens. The words from the full, sensual lips of one of the dark-eyed, lusty men could pierce even the strongest and most resolute bastions of feminine virtue. The righteous maiden, stripped of the familiar shield of father, kith and kin, and no longer bolstered by tradition and customs, was virtually a helpless lamb among the wolves. Who knew when she might fling away both her inhibitions and virginity after being beguiled by the passionate tongue of a Southron?

Above them, the twins could hear the slaver speaking in that bewitching language. They both felt shame, for the unknown words teased their ears, tempting them. Even though they could not understand what he was saying, they were convinced that it was something unutterably carnal and base... but unbearably alluring. Even more than her sister, Elffled was captivated by his voice, which disturbed her in some odd way, and excited her, too. She felt her heart pounding in her chest. Was it fear, or something else?

"My splendid Red Fox, do you not agree that the view here would be greatly improved if that damn tree in front of us were cut down?" Lulled to a semblance of placidity by his reassuring tone and the rhythmic stroking of his hand, the chestnut wuffled a reply. "Certainly you do!" He idly continued caressing her neck as he rested his gaze upon the river.

"We are seeing only a second in time, my beauty, but we should look into the future. There, behind us, across the plain, can you not imagine the tents of my people, endless and without number, spread across that lush valley? I can, my lovely! I can!" he cried out passionately. "Water in abundance, and how blessed is that word among the people of the South and East! Soon we will turn the enemy's lands into pasturage for our flocks and herds. We will plant vineyards of grapes and orchards of apples, peaches, pomegranates, pistachios, and almonds, all the fruits that delight both our eyes and our stomachs.

"Look with me into the future, my love." He sat up straighter in the saddle, his eyes those of a visionary. "In time, the camps will give way to farms and villages. Eventually the villages will give way to the domed cities of my people, filled with splashing fountains and pools and lofty towers that will touch the heavens. Where once the heathen cursed and raged, civilization will flourish! Our fingers shall drip with bounty. Our flocks and herds will multiply upon the land, and our women will be fruitful, bearing us sons without number."

Sighing in rapture, Esarhaddon affectionately patted the horse's neck. "Ka'adara, I see it all now unfolding as though a vision had passed before my eyes! The Haradrim shall establish great trade routes which will reach across the earth. As far away as the land of the Golden Lords, we will send caravans laden with slaves, ebony, ivory, gems, and skins of zebra, leopard, cheetah, and other exotic animals. There, we will trade those goods for spices, silks, and porcelain! We will grow strong, powerful and rich, and the fame of the Haradrim shall be voiced upon every lip throughout all of Middle-earth. We will conquer by the sword, and then when we have won peace, we shall rule in sublime felicity and tranquility. And then someday, when our power has waxed even greater - I swear it upon the names of my ancestors! - my people will spread across the face of the earth and claim it all in the name of our kings and our gods!"

Hearing the passion in his voice, the mare turned large dark eyes back to look at him. Still thirsty and restless, she was unimpressed by his speech and shook her head, tossing her tasseled reins and jingling the chains on her bit.

"But, my observant mare, there is yet a problem." His eyelids drooping until they were half closed, Esarhaddon scowled over the mare's head and viewed the farther bank. "Little Fox, across this river beyond the loathly valley and the stony plain, dwells the Dark Wizard. He sits in His tower, drunk upon His own noxious fumes, croaking and peeping like some hideous, bloated frog, and claiming the credit for our victory. It is the men of Harad who have won this triumph - not the Impostor!"

The mare stamped her hoof impatiently. "Yes, my lovely mare, you do not need to remind me - the wretched men of Khand did have some part, but only a small one! You did not need to bring this trifling matter to my attention. But we do not need to think about the accursed Khandians now. There are affairs far closer to home that demand our attention - those blasted slaves who have outwitted my men and made them look like fools!"

Where were those wily slave wenches anyway? They were only weak, silly women, and yet they had eluded his men. They had stymied his plans, costing him both time and money. He clenched his fist in frustration. When he found them, he would make an example of them. What satisfaction he would find in teaching them the lessons of obedience! He could almost feel the whip in his hands. After their backs, buttocks, and thighs had been caressed with the sting of the lash, they would melt at his touch. He would make these proud blonde Northern women into willing slaves who begged to be allowed to press their lips against his feet!

Esarhaddon gave himself and his mare a few more minutes to rest. Then, gathering up the reins, he clicked softly to her and touched his heels to her sides. He rode a little further north along the riverbank, where he found a small stream. After he and his horse had quenched their thirst from the cool, clear waters of the stream, he refilled his water skin, remounted, and rode away toward the west.

He would find them! And when he did, he would bend their wills to his. He would train them himself to be the most exquisite pleasure slaves for whom any man would ever ask... that is, if he did not decide to keep them for himself! The thought of their naked young bodies lying spread and open before him brought him to instant throbbing arousal. Perhaps he would find them that afternoon, and when he did...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ka'adara, lal-gu Ka'adara!" - Sumerian for "Red Fox, my sweet Red Fox!"


	27. Chapter 26 - Sweet Houris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After the Southern slaver had ridden away, Elfhild and Elffled lay there while the pounding of their hearts gradually lessened to a gentle thumping and their breathing returned to its usual measured pace. Too frightened to move, they remained in their hiding place long after he had ridden away. Intimidated at their close brush with capture, the sisters listened for the sound of hoofbeats and the guttural grunts of orcs, but nothing stirred the quietude of the woods.

"That was close," Elfhild whispered at last.

Elffled sat up and stretched her arms above her head, working the stiffness out of her sore muscles. "Too close. We could have been recaptured."

"We would have been, had he seen us. That fierce and terrible man is the leader of the slavers. Es-ar-ha-ddon u-Huzz-i-ya," Elfhild enunciated slowly, struggling with the long foreign name. "I think that was what he called himself. Doubtless he would have taken especial delight in capturing us!"

Elffled shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself. "I am frightened, Hild. What if next time we are not so lucky? The longer the slavers are forced to search for us, the angrier they will become. What little mercy they possess will be cast aside in their rage. What if they torture us? Both of us have seen how the orc officers punish unruly soldiers - by flailing the skin from their backs with the cruel whip!" She closed her eyes and squeezed them tightly shut as though to block out the gruesome memories. "Oh, I am afraid they will do that and worse to us!"

Elfhild trembled at the image. Though the orcs were fiends and murderers, still she could not help but wince in sympathy as the bestial soldiers screamed out in agony upon the whipping post. All too well she saw herself in their position, stripped naked and tied to a tree, her back bloody with crimson stripes.

"They can never harm us if they cannot catch us," Elfhild smiled weakly. "We need to flee from this place, for we can be sure that the slaver has brought men with him. What frightens me even more than his men are those part-breed orcs which he keeps in his employ. Their sense of smell is reputed to be greater than that of hounds. We need to think of some way to confuse them and get them off our trail."

"What do you suggest?" Elffled asked. She was relieved to see that her sister was thinking sensibly once more. How very disconcerting it had been to see Elfhild behaving so eccentrically just a few hours before!

"I have a plan," Elfhild replied resolutely as she rose to her feet. Putting her hand to her forehead to shield her vision from the glare of the harsh sunlight upon the barren ground, her eyes surveyed the course of the Anduin. "We must take to the River, and quickly!"

"What?" Elffled blinked in surprise, fearing that she had been wrong in her earlier estimation that her sister's mind had returned once again. Surely Elfhild did not mean to throw herself into the water, as Waerburh had threatened! Surely, she did not--

"Aye, you heard me correctly. The river is our only hope; at least the only one that comes to my mind," Elfhild repeated as she placed her walking stick on the ground and took off her cloak. Then, hoisting her dress over her head, she dropped it to the ground with a plop and then took off her underdress.

"Elfhild," her sister wailed as she rushed to her side, "you have no foolish ideas to drown yourself, do you?"

Elfhild shot her sister an incredulous stare. "Would I be stripping off my clothes if I were planning to do that? I have some dignity, you know!" She disdainfully shook away the clinging hand that the other girl had clamped about her arm. "We are going to make a small raft to hold our clothing and food. While I rip the material of my shift into strips, you gather some dry wood. Fetch only the straightest and strongest that you can find. We already have the two staves of plane wood which we found yesterday. When the raft is completed, we will bundle our clothing and put our food on top of the pile."

Elffled's eyebrows rose to high arches as she regarded the other girl incredulously. "This sounds as silly as some children's game! It will never work!" She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Certainly it will work; there is nothing to worry about," Elfhild proclaimed adamantly. "Our tracks will be lost to the orcs and the water will wash away our scents. Seeking for us will be like trying to find turtles or fish. They will never find us this way. We can even take turns resting against the raft when we become weary." Finding a seat upon a large rock, she began to reduce her shift into long pieces of cloth.

"But it is broad daylight!" Elffled hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes wildly darting about. "You want us to travel naked?! If the slavers see us, they will be braying like jackasses!"

"They will not see us, for they will be too busy searching every grove of trees and section of woods ever to venture down to the river for a swim," Elfhild laughed quietly.

***

In spite of her grumbling, Elffled gathered enough sticks for the girls to lash together a small raft. When it was finished, Elfhild waded into the hip-deep water near to the shore and set the raft down upon the river's surface. "The raft floats," Elfhild exclaimed, almost in disbelief. She smiled up to her sister on the riverbank. "Now all it needs is the cargo."

"Elfhild, I do not like this!" Elffled cautiously looked around before pulling her dress over her head. She felt as though there were lustful, leering eyes staring at her from behind every rock, tree and bush. "I cannot do this! I do not know why you ever came up with this ridiculous idea!"

Completely ignoring her sister, Elfhild continued issuing orders like one of the marshals of the Riddermark. "'Fled, your shoes, stockings and shift now. Take them off and be quick; then gather all of my things. Wrap our clothing around the food and carry it out here to the raft. Do not forget to bring those two long strips of cloth that I set aside. They are to tie the bundle to our fine craft," Elfhild admonished, far too cheerfully, Elffled thought. "And hurry up!"

"Why, she looks positively happy to be out there in the water as naked as the day she was born!" Elffled grumbled to herself. Still, she waded into the water, holding the bundle containing the precious food supply far above the water's surface. "I am coming," she muttered sourly.

More to prove to her sister that it could be done than anything, Elfhild volunteered to be the first one to push the raft through the water. Holding the edge of the raft in one hand, she moved out into the water until she could no longer feel the sandy river bottom beneath her feet. Then she pushed out into the water along the bank, swimming upstream. Both girls were adequate swimmers, having spent much time over the years splashing about in streams near their house. Elffled had never liked swimming in deep water, though, and being in the unfamiliar waters of the Anduin frightened her. She tried not to think about how far her feet were from the bottom.

The river water was a bit chilly, but the golden sun was warm and the day was a balmy one. When the twins grew weary, they clung to the roots and tree trunks which grew nigh unto the water. There they caught their breath and rested their muscles, which were unaccustomed to swimming such long distances. Then after they had regained their strength, they would take to the water once again. They made good speed in spite of the current, for driving them on, like the crack of a whip, was the memory of the deep voice of Esarhaddon.

The girls had been swimming upstream for a while when Elffled began grumbling. "Oh, Elfhild, can we not rest for a moment?" she whined petulantly, her lower lip pouting. "We have put the slaver far behind us. Please, let us swim towards shore and rest!"

"I suppose there is no harm to it, but just a short rest, no more!" Elfhild admonished as she splashed closer to the bank. The water was not so deep here, and their feet touched the floor of the riverbed. No longer needing to swim, they waded through the waist-deep water, pushing the raft ahead. They were just approaching the tree-lined shore when they heard, coming from high above them on the riverbank, the strains of an instrument which reminded them of a lute.

Gasping in alarm, Elffled clutched her sister's arm. "Elfhild, what is that?" she squeaked out in a frightened whisper.

"I do not know, only that it is something which promises more trouble for us!" Her senses on alert, Elfhild's eyes scanned the bank high above them.

"We have to hide somewhere! We cannot just stand here naked in the water!"

"Over there," Elfhild whispered, frantically motioning to the exposed roots of a large tree above them. At some time in the past, the river had cut deeply into the bank, gouging away the soil and forming a small cave beneath the roots.

"You want us to go in THERE?" Elffled's hushed voice rose in alarm.

"Yes," her sister hissed back. "There is nothing in there which can hurt you. This little den might even make a cozy hiding spot." Elfhild grinned wryly, as though their desperate fight to keep out of enemy hands was all a childish game of hide-and-seek. "Now - duck under the roots! Here, let me help you with our raft," Elfhild exhorted as she struggled to maneuver the raft between two widely placed roots.

"Cozy?" Elffled grumbled as her long hair caught on a dangling root. "This awful place is full of mosquitoes, and they are already eating me alive! Ouch!" Swatting wildly at the little pests, she scowled at her sister and suppressed the urge to swat her.

***

His robes flowing behind him, the young rider had gradually brought his horse down from a lope to a trot and then reined the animal in under the sheltering willows along the riverbank. Dressed in a dark green burnoose, brown jellaba, tan pantaloons with brown riding boots, and a drab keffiyeh upon his head, he was easily identified as one of the accursed Southrons. Dismounting, the young man tethered his horse to a small sapling. He hummed a melody as he retrieved his waterskin from the pommel of his saddle and then fetched a wooden case from a leather bag hanging at the side.

As he took the gourd-shaped oud from its case, he brushed his fingers lovingly over the rosewood body. His eyes lingered admiringly on the mother-of-pearl and ebony inlay on the fingerboard, and he thought of the day when he had received the oud. His father had presented it to him on his twelfth birthday, six years ago, after a ceremony recognizing his passage into manhood. The creator of the marvelous instrument was a highly renowned master craftsman who hailed from the great Haradric city of Kaskal. The marvelous gift had included a pick crafted from an eagle feather. After learning to play, the young man had forsaken the feather pick for his thumb. However, on a later trip to the souks of Kaskal, his father had bought him a pick made of tortoiseshell, which he much preferred.

Strumming softly with the tortoiseshell plectrum, he began to sing in his rich baritone voice.

O, come, my gentle sighing one,  
Sing a melody in the sun...

"No, still not right," he thought, the dark eyebrows over his luminous brown eyes furrowing as his handsome tawny face scowled in displeasure. He paused in his playing to think of a more pleasing arrangement of words. "Perhaps it should not rhyme," he reflected, and then tested a melody to fit his new phrasing.

Her body blossoms like the budding rose  
Her face, round like the fullness of the moon  
The mole beside her red lips has captivated me!  
Do not be cruel to me, my swaying willow!  
Turn your face to me, my budding rose!  
Ah! For love of her, I am dying!

Inbir, third in command of Esarhaddon's bodyguards, was a man in love. He could not, no matter how hard he tried, drive the image of the lovely blonde houri from his thoughts. "Virgin," he thought dismally, "and possessing an unusual shade of reddish blonde hair. Maidens command the highest prices, far more than a humble man such as I am could ever afford to pay. I am lost to love, and will surely perish, my heart turning to dust like a crushed dry leaf!"

Inbir resumed the strumming of his oud with a fervor. His dark, gentle eyes were filled with sorrow and his lean face was strained, the muscles tense. His music reflected his melancholy and sorrow as he pondered the impossibility of ever obtaining the slave girl with the strawberry blonde hair. Closing his eyes, he captured her image in his mind, caressing it with his thoughts, and imagining her tender body close to his as he held her once again. Here the pick struck the strings softly, gently, causing a rippling, undulating tune, the swaying rhythm like two lovers moving in the dance of love. As his lips formed the words, the song developed an even richer pulse, sensual and erotic. "Ah! The sweetness of her mouth is like that of the peach when it is crushed, and for but one kiss of her tender lips, I would die!" his baritone voice moaned. Then his strumming grew faster, more desperate, as he angrily struck the strings with his pick, placing all of his longing and frustration into his song.

"It is hopeless. Everything is hopeless!" he agonized as his playing ended with his striking a sudden harsh note. Laying the oud across his knees, he bowed his head, sighing in despair, his heart heavy in his chest. There must be some way that he could have this girl, but what chance did a penniless man have? For some time, he sat there in silence, unable to coax the oud to sing its song. Then as he began to think of more words for the next stanza, he could not believe his ears when he heard splashing down below him.

He looked down and his disbelieving eyes caught sight of two willowy girls, their startled faces turned tantalizingly up to him. The droplets of water beading off their nude skin turned silver in the sunlight, dazzling his eyes and sending the blood rushing through his veins. "By the Gods! What has fate brought me?"

The maidens were lovely! Their high, firm breasts swelled like ripe pomegranates over delicate rib cages; their nipples were blushing pink buds; their waists slender as willow saplings; their navels cups of pearl; their hips were just beginning to show the delightful roundness of womanhood; and their thighs were graceful, curving alabaster columns. The lovely creatures trembled like frightened gazelles poised at the moment of flight. He knew in that moment that he desired them every bit as much as he wanted Aeffe! "Houris," he whispered. "Lovely blonde houris!" O, if only he were a wealthy man, he could have a whole harem filled with these breathtakingly beautiful Northern women!

"The slaves," he cried, the blood pounding in his head. Rising quickly to his feet, he rushed down the bank, stumbling, almost tripping in his haste. When he reached the water, the beautiful maids were gone! He could see nothing but the sun shining silver upon the river.

"Houris?" he shouted hopefully, his voice deep and husky. "Lovely houris, come back!" Moaning, Inbir sank to the ground, his head in his hands. "Once again, the beauties of Paradise are denied to me! Houris, come back! Please come back!"

***

"I do not know about you, Elfhild, but I am ready to surrender!" Elffled moaned despairingly. "There is hardly a spot upon my body above the water that has not been bitten by these accursed mosquitoes!" She made another hopeless swat at the troublesome pests which hovered in a dense cloud in front of her face. With a mutter, she clamped her nostrils shut with her fingers. Then, submerging under the water, she left the angry cloud of insects to converge upon her sister.

"Elffled, we are not going to surrender to that man! He cannot sit up there all day; he has to leave sometime. At least he is quiet now and not wailing like a woman in the travails of birth," Elfhild remarked sourly as her sister resurfaced.

"You know, I rather liked his singing," came Elffled's defiant reply. "The melody was so different, so romantic, and though I do not understand the meaning of his words, his voice was so, so--"

"Blatantly sensual," Elfhild finished, acidly.

"You make him sound as though he were evil," Elffled bemoaned, hurt by her sister's criticism. She flushed furiously behind the cloud of mosquitoes which had quickly regathered around her face.

"Oh, Elffled!" Batting mosquitoes away with her right hand, she touched her sister's forearm with the other. "You have always said you hate these people! Remember the brazen Easterling who kissed you?"

"And I still do hate them, but not their singing," she giggled sheepishly. "Hours could pass, and I would not tire of his--" One of the buzzing insects flew into her open mouth, bringing on an energetic round of choking and coughing.

"Even an ass knows when to open its mouth to bray and when to keep it closed," Elfhild replied smugly as she slapped her sister smartly across the back.

"You ninny! You are not supposed to do hit someone on the back when she is choking!" Elffled squawked, clearing her throat of phlegm. "Besides that, I had already swallowed the damn thing! And I am not an ass either!"

"There was another mosquito on your back. I was merely swatting it," Elfhild smiled sweetly, but Elffled caught the distinctive snide expression in her blue eyes. Retaliating, Elffled splashed the other girl in the face with a handful of water.

"Come on, let us get out of here," Elfhild muttered in disgust, and tugged her sister's arm. "I think he is gone by now!"

"Yes," her sister replied sullenly. "We should have surrendered to him while he was here and saved ourselves a great deal of trouble. Now he has probably ridden off to alert the rest of them to our whereabouts."

Ducking beneath the tree roots that had protected their hiding spot, Elfhild splashed through the water and heard Elffled following close behind her. "It does not matter, because we are going to outwit them yet. When he gets back, we will be far away... that is if you do not alert him with all the noise you are making! You sound like a fat old cow plowing through the water!"

"I hope the Southrons come back soon and rescue me from you! You are a worse slave master than they are! All you need is a whip!" Elffled retorted as she scratched a reddened, swelling welt on her cheek. "And I am not a cow either!"

"Temper, temper," Elfhild smiled smugly, pleased at the rise she had brought out of her sister. After she had complained so much and refused to believe her harrowing account of the demon lord who had savaged her bosom, Elffled deserved that remark about the cow, and a great deal worse.

***

Leaving their insect-infested hiding place, the sisters traveled along the bank by alternately swimming and then resting upon gnarled tree roots which overhung the water. As they moved upriver, they passed a small tributary which flowed into the Anduin. The river was deeper here, as their feet had not touched the bottom for some time.

After swimming about two furlongs upriver, the sisters saw a long wooden wharf jutting out into the Anduin. Several piers extended out into the river for loading and unloading boats. On the bank were several unpretentious structures, their unpainted sides a drab weathered gray against the bleak landscape.

"Hild! Look!" Elffled exclaimed excitedly. "There are some buildings ahead!"

"Probably full of orcs," Elfhild pronounced glumly as she swam past her sister. Elffled paddled in place against the current and gaped at the wharf.

"There is no one about," Elffled shouted. "The place appears to be deserted! I do not know about you, Hild, but I am going to investigate!" With that, Elffled swam to the wharf and lifted herself from the water.

"Elffled, come back!" her twin cried out, but her sister was already walking along the wooden quay. Muttering, Elfhild picked up the little raft and pushed it up onto the dock. Then with a fierce scowl directed at her sister, she grabbed the edge of the wharf and pulled herself out of the water. The mid-afternoon sun warmed her naked body, but the gentle breeze chilled her wet skin into gooseflesh.

"There is no one here, Hild! Whoever once used this place has abandoned it!"

"If you continue standing there like a naked, witless fool, you might find that this place is not so deserted as you might wish!" Muttering, Elfhild bent down and began to extract her garments from the bundle on the raft. "That Southron who screeched like a rutting tomcat was not all that far down the river. At this very moment, he might be on his way here with a troop of horsemen who would like nothing more than to see you cavorting naked upon this dock!"

"You do not have to be so insulting about his singing. I thought he had a truly wonderful voice," Elffled gushed, coloring slightly.

"Just put on your clothes, 'Fled! Then we will explore this miserable place. After all, it was your idea to come here!"

"And do I need to remind you, Elfhild, that it was your idea to swim naked in the river? Perhaps you like the thoughts of men seeing you in a state of undress!" Elffled smiled sweetly, a sarcastic smirk on her face.

"Oh, be quiet!" Elfhild's voice dripped with acid as she jerked her dress over her head.


	28. Chapter 27 - The Sad Story of Sang-mí

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"Sang-mí, what did the patient say when she awoke?" The physician turned from studying the sleeping woman and looked questioningly at the slave girl. While supervising the mass bathing at the river that afternoon, Tushratta had received an urgent message from Sang-mí, imploring him to return as quickly as possible. When he came back to the tent, he found that the guards and Sang-mí had lifted the unconscious woman to the couch, propping pillows under her head and shoulders.

"Master, her first words?" Sang-mí asked, her eyes fixed demurely upon the floor. "I do not know if I am able to answer that. At the time, I was certain that she was dying, and I was so distressed that I cannot remember exactly what she said. There was something..." The slave girl pursed her lips as she tried to recall the words. "'Faahhst-helm...' Yes, I think she said something that sounded like 'Faahhst-helm.'"

The physician pulled his stool closer to the woman's bed. As he gazed upon Goldwyn's pallid face, he wished that he had the power to read her thoughts. "Faahhst-helm... that might be a name... probably someone close to her... Possibly she will enlighten us later. Do you remember anything else she might have said?"

"Master, no. I am sorry." Sang-mí shook her head. "The lady seems so ill! What is ailing her?" the girl inquired softly as she walked closer to the physician. "Has she come under the influence of the Evil Eye?"

"Sang-mí, you have posed an interesting question." Tushratta rubbed a finger over his bearded chin. "But it is one which is impossible to answer. As a physician, I must deal with the known and not spend time conjecturing about the world of the unknown."

At that moment, a servant boy bearing a tray of medical supplies entered the chamber. Bowing, he set the tray down on the table beside Tushratta and stepped back.

"Watch closely, Aban, and you might learn something," the physician told the servant. He soaked a cloth in a dish of peppermint oil and waved it under Goldwyn's nose. Sang-mí and the boy waited in nervous anticipation to see what wonder the physician might show them.

Nothing happened at first, but then the doctor made several passes with the peppermint soaked rag. Goldwyn's nostrils twitched, and she frowned in her sleep. Sneezing, she opened her eyes and tried to push the cloth away.

"Ah, finally you awaken!" Tushratta smiled as he gently patted her cheek. "Stay with us this time and do not go back to that other place!" He turned to the servant boy. "Prepare a tea of ginger at once!"

Goldwyn struggled to sit up, but when black and red spots danced before her eyes, she was assaulted by a wave of weakness. She fell back gasping upon the bed. "Who are you?" she demanded, her eyes darting wildly about the tent. "And where am I! Who are these other people?"

Tushratta smiled reassuringly at her, hoping his efforts would comfort her and drive away her fears. "Madame, I would have liked to have met you under better circumstances, but since it could not be so, I am honored to make your acquaintance now. Let me introduce myself." The physician stood to his feet and bowed from the waist. "I am Tushratta of Khand, physician of Esarhaddon uHuzziya, and you are under my care. This is my tent, and this pretty little girl whom you see is named Sang-mí, a slave of my employer. The boy who has gone to fetch tea is one of my three slaves and hopes to learn medicine from me. His name is Aban." The physician smiled at his distraught patient. "All is well, Madame, and you need be afraid no longer." Slowly, as not to frighten her, he touched her golden hair.

Though she did not protest, Goldwyn eyed this tall, foreign man warily. Everything was so strange! She had awakened from the realm of dreams to the strong, irritating smell of peppermint. And what strange dreams they had been! Lost and alone, she had wandered down a passage deep in the bowels of the earth, searching for someone whose name she had forgotten. Who was it? For a moment, a name came to her mind, and then slipped away as quickly as it had come. Where were her sons? She could hear them calling out her name. A great weariness weighted down her body, as though she had traveled many miles on a long journey. The events of the last few days were vague, nebulous fragments of memories, and trying to make sense of any of them only made her more weary.

Who was this strange Easterling who spoke Westron with such a heavy accent? Though he was rigidly formal, she sensed that was a mask to hide an innate shyness. What had he said that his name was? She could not remember. Her head felt as though it were filled with oat porridge, and when she tried to think, she became dizzy and confused.

What had happened to her? She remembered a dark place, cold and damp, and then memory failed and everything faded into mist. Suddenly, an image came to her - a half-remembered dream, or perhaps reality? No, it could not be reality, for she lay dead in a tomb and a stranger gazed down upon her, his eyes dark and cruel, his pale face gleaming with a fell light. He reached out a hand and lay it upon her exposed breast, and she writhed under his icy touch, both from the agony of the bitter chill of his vise-like grip and the perverse pleasure of his wanton fingers. Oh, what was wrong with her? She tried to force her mind to return to the present, but it was as though she were swimming through continuous layers of deep, murky water.

"Aban returns with your tea," Tushratta's voice interrupted her muddled thoughts. "Can you drink some?" When she nodded, the physician lifted up her head and brought a spoonful of tea to her lips. "Yes, that is it. Just sip it. The tea will bring warmth back to your body," he urged as he spooned more tea between her parted lips. "You are doing very well, Madame. Just a little bit more..."

"Yes..." Goldwyn sighed, her body succumbing to the lure of lassitude. "So warm, so soothing..." She closed her eyes and sank back into the pillows which seemed to surround her like downy clouds. So weary... so exhausted... She had felt chilled to the bone, but the tea was bringing a pleasant warmth back to her body. It would feel so good to rest for a while and enjoy this sensation of comfort, to slip into much needed slumber. But she could not allow herself to do that, for if she did, the dreams might return! She shook her head vigorously, forcing herself to wakefulness. "My sons, where are they? Where are they?"

"Madame, I do not know," Tushratta sighed. Laying the back of his hand against her forehead, he looked into her face. "Can you not remember?" She shook her head. Taking her hand into his own, he massaged her palm with his strong fingers. His voice, though it was foreign and somewhat stilted, was calming, and his gentle brown eyes were regarding her kindly, as though he were trying to help her. "Danger," Goldwyn's senses warned her, somehow resenting his compassion. Recoiling from the tawny skin and dark hair on the back of his hand, she pulled away from his grasp. She willed him to see the resentment in her eyes and understand it for what it was - the intense loathing she felt for his whole race.

"No... I remember very little," she replied tersely. Things were growing cloudy again, her grasp on reality weakening. What had this man said his name was? She knew that he had told her, but once again she had forgotten. Some unpronounceable heathen word, which no doubt had some unspeakably vile meaning. Perhaps he was another part of the dream that never seemed to end? No, she would not be that fortunate! She was sure that he was real. She could smell the scent of sandalwood about him, though she knew not the name of the sweet smell that reminded her of a fragrant grove. Shaking her head, she tried to clear her mind, but again it was caught in dark clouds and pale spider webs of mist.

"Madame, rest a while and perhaps your memory will return later." The physician's thick, offensive foreign-sounding voice was the last thing that Goldwyn heard before she surrendered to sleep's beckoning call.

"Strange," the physician muttered, almost to himself, "ginger tea is noted for being a stimulant."

Rising to his feet, Tushratta went to Sang-mí, who had crossed the tent to stand by the arras. The girl appeared very nervous, fidgeting uncomfortably and rolling her coral necklace in her fingers. "Sang-mí, I must write a dispatch to the shakh and inform him that the lady has awakened several times this afternoon. Then I must attend to my other patients. I do not wish to be disturbed unless the patient's condition worsens."

"Yes, Master." While he talked to her, Sang-mí kept her eyes directed to the floor, as was expected of slaves. It would be disrespectful to look up into his eyes without his permission, for he was a free man, his station in life far superior to that of an humble slave girl.

"Sang-mí," the physician spoke kindly as he tipped her face up with his hand. "Such loveliness as yours was created for all to behold and should not be hidden. When you are in my presence, do not keep your eyes averted. Do you understand?"

Timidly, she looked up at him and smiled. "Yes, Master," she whispered as she gratefully nuzzled his hand.

Tushratta paused, still clasping her face in his palm. "Sang-mí, I know you are frightened and alarmed by these strange happenings, but you should not be. Aziru and I are physicians, trained in the learning center of the world - Bablon. There are none more qualified than we are to unravel the ailments that plague mankind. We will find the answer to the malaise that afflicts the lady!"

"Yes, Master." She lovingly kissed his palm. "I will try not to be afraid."

"Such a beautiful, talented girl! What a shame that she is nothing more than a common prostitute, kept for the pleasure of Esarhaddon's men," Tushratta mused as he pushed aside the arras and walked into the outer room. "Poor, unfortunate Sang-mí!"

***

Goldwyn awoke slowly from another terrifying nightmare that seemed to go on endlessly. She had been running through a dark, gloomy corridor sectioned off by many gates which opened before her. Suddenly, up ahead, she saw the pale spectre from the tomb. Clad all in black velvet, he held a yellow flower in his long, graceful fingers. He tucked the golden blossom behind his ear, which was such an absurd sight that Goldwyn would have laughed had he not been a fell spirit. Then suddenly the man's appearance began to change, his lean, muscular body giving way to soft, feminine curves and voluptuous breasts which threatened to burst forth from a scandalously low cut gown.

Goldwyn screamed in horror, for she realized she was looking at herself. She lunged for this unholy fiend who had stolen her body, but she collided with what appeared to be an invisible wall. Picking herself up from the ground, she discovered that she was looking through a gigantic mirror set in a frame of gilded wood which had been carved with snarling dragons. As she pounded on the glass, she watched the fiend blow her a kiss over his shoulder as he swayed away in her body. She knew then that she was the illusion, and that he was the reality.

The music of a lute, so out of place in this horrible realm of gloom and shadow, infiltrated her troubled thoughts, and she slowly came to wakefulness. Her bleary eyes caught sight of Sang-mí, who was sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the tent, her baby lying on the cushions beside her. The girl cooed softly to the child as she played a gentle lullaby upon a long necked lute made of mulberry wood.

"Oh! Mistress has awakened!" Sang-mí set the lute aside and walked over to the bed. "Perhaps you would like something to drink or eat?"

"Only a little water," Goldwyn replied, trying to think about the terrifying images of her dream.

As she held the cup of water to Goldwyn's lips, Sang-mí fretted over the patient's appearance. Though her skin felt cool to the touch, the lady had the dull eyes of someone who suffered with a fever. Sang-mí had nursed many men, and she had never seen any with symptoms quite like these.

"Are you sure you would not like some food, lady?" she asked solicitously as she set the cup back on the table. "We are not certain when you last ate."

"No, I told you that I wanted no food!" Goldwyn snapped. "Why do you insist upon tormenting me with these questions?" She pulled herself up to a sitting position in the bed and glared at Sang-mí.

"Perhaps the lady would allow this poor slave to entertain her by playing the lute," Sang-mí offered, her eyes lowered modestly, betraying no sign that Goldwyn's words stung her. The woman's erratic behavior was confusing. She could understand the woman's poor manners if she were delirious with a fever, but Goldwyn's skin was as cool as mountain spring water. Not only was she rude, she was hateful!

"Was that the sound I heard whilst I slept?"

"Yes, lady," Sang-mí replied hesitantly, afraid that she had further offended the woman with her music. "I was playing to soothe Nib, my son."

"Well, I suppose there would be no harm in it," Goldwyn grumbled, her upper lip curling disdainfully. "Go on, but play softly. My head feels as though it is splitting in two."

Holding the lute in one hand, Sang-mí gently strummed the instrument with the other. She selected soothing melodies which she hoped would calm the lady. When she had finished her first selection, she looked questioningly at the woman to see if she approved. Goldwyn nodded to her, and Sang-mí chose a pleasant pastoral tune that was seldom played outside of Harad.

"That was lovely," Goldwyn murmured appreciatively, surprising Sang-mí with her compliment. "Where did you learn to play that way? I have not heard any finer music, even in Rohan."

"Harad, the land where I was born." Sang-mí smiled graciously. "I am glad that my playing has brought Mistress joy."

Harad! The very name filled Goldwyn with loathing. The heathen savages were allied with Mordor, and her people had fought against them in Rohan and Gondor. Possibly one of the devils who had slain her husband was from Harad! But yet, as she looked at this gentle girl and listened to her music, Goldwyn's heart began to soften. Though they came from different lands, each of them was no more than a captive in bondage. Slavery knew neither nationality nor country, neither gender nor race.

As she watched, the girl held her finger out to little Nib, who grabbed it in his grubby hand. Gurgling and cooing, the baby kicked his feet and gripped his mother's hand tighter. Sang-mí laughed and gently detached her hand from the baby. "Perhaps he will be a musician, too, when he grows up," the girl murmured, her pride obvious.

"Sang-mí, is your a husband a musician as well?" Goldwyn asked, genuinely interested now.

"Husband?" Sang-mí replied softly. "A slave such as I has no husband."

"Oh." Goldwyn colored slightly. "Then who is the child's father?"

"I am not sure, Mistress." Sang-mí laughed as she looked down at the carpet. "He could have been one of many."

Shocked, Goldwyn felt her throat constrict. "Were you... were you... raped?" She thought of her own situation with the slave master. How horrible it would be to be forced against her will by these cruel bastards!

"Yes, Mistress. I am afraid it is so." Sang-mí raised her eyes and looked with no embarrassment into those of Goldwyn. "But once I could hold my head high, for I was not always a fallen woman. Once I was the daughter of an honorable family of merchants who were respected by all who knew them."

"Sang-mí, what happened?" Goldwyn asked gently.

"My life and my story are of little consequence." Blushing beneath her tawny skin, Sang-mí's gaze returned to her lute.

"Nonsense, my dear!" Goldwyn exclaimed. "I want to hear what happened to you. I implore you to tell me what brought you to such wretched circumstances!"

"Only if Mistress wishes to hear of it." Sang-mí's dark eyelashes fluttered as she began to play her lute softly. "I was born in Harad..."

**SANG-MI'S STORY**

My parents were merchants in the city of Ereniri, which is in the region of Northern Harad which is known for its beautiful forests with towering green cedars and plane trees that rise and spread their arms to try to capture the stars. My father was an importer of spices, and my mother an importer of fine silks, satins and cloth of gold. When I was born, I was espoused by my parents to the newly weaned son of another merchant, a trusted friend of my father. When I was but a small child, scarcely weaned from my mother's breast, my father and mother allowed my betrothed's father to bring him to visit me.

As we grew, he would play games with me that I enjoyed, simple games played with twigs and small toys. Often we pretended that we were building the house where we would dwell when we were married. Constructing the walls and ceiling beams from fragrant cedar sticks, he would cover the roof with fragrant grasses. Pebbles and tiny stones we used for chairs, tables, beds, benches, couches. I would contribute to the cushions and linens by sewing scraps of old cotton, linen and silk taken from my nurse's sewing basket. With his knife, he made notches in the larger pieces of wood for cupboards in which to place fine chalices and urns. With him I wandered over the meadows and played by small streams, where he caught silver minnows in his hands and gave me to eat raw. I look upon these days so long ago as being the most idyllic of my life.

_Sang-mí paused for a moment in the telling of her story to strum her lute slowly in a lovely wistful tune. Every touch of her slim, graceful fingers seemed to breathe life into the instrument._

My heart speaks through the lute, and without it, I would be mute. Even though I were to search the world for all the words that it contains, there would never be enough to express myself the way that my friend the lute can.

When my betrothed was a youth and I was still a maid, we would sit together beneath a great plane tree as he told me all that was in his heart. He said though he had loved me even before he had ever met me, his mind was restless and he wanted to leave. I thought that our small city was the most beautiful in all of the earth, but he said it had become oppressive to him. Though I considered it foolish, he told me that he even felt stifled within the confines of the beautiful forest. He was a man, and make his own way in the world.

How I wept when I learned of this! I was but a child of only twelve summers when my beloved revealed this terrible secret to me! I could only cry as he placed his hand upon my shoulder and tried to soothe me. "Come and let us play upon the needles beneath the cedar and inhale the essence of the forest," he whispered in my ear. Now that I am older and know the ways of this wicked world, I think he hoped to seduce me.

I, however, was in no mood for play, or much of anything else. I could scarcely see about me for the tears which came so readily to my eyes. I pouted and sulked and even tried to strike him, but he was much too strong. As he tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, he explained that his dissatisfaction had nothing to do with me, but lay within himself. My sulkiness was soon replaced by anger, and I told him with much heat and fury that he should think about the day when I turned fifteen, and he would take me as his wife. How could he expect to be a husband when his mind was always roaming to places neither of us had ever seen?

His face clouded up and became stormy like the sky when the summer storms come. Both of us glaring and furious, we began to argue and revile each other with unkind and cruel words. I ran away from him back to my home and told the servants at the gates not to admit him, for he was a rude and horrid boy and had said vile things to me. I was met by my mother, who asked me why I was weeping. When I told her, she looked at me with her kind, gentle eyes and explained to me that my betrothed was just unsettled by something and that upon the morrow he would be back as firm and staunch and happy as he had been earlier in the day. I did not believe her, and after asking to be excused, I called upon my nurse to tell the servants that I wished to go to the baths and forget the world for the next hour or two.

Upon the next morning, I found the house in a great tumult. A messenger had arrived with the dreadful news - that Samir had run away during the night. Of course, though I was saddened, I did not find the news all that unexpected.

Almost a year had passed before he came back, much taller and far more handsome than when he had gone. He brought me a necklace of pearls and corals. This small piece that I wear in the necklace about my neck is all that remains of it.

_Sang-mí's eyes held a faraway look, and her strumming became so wistful and haunting that it would have touched anyone's heart, even the impervious Goldwyn._

There were other things that he gave me, but none I liked so well as my pearl and coral necklace. When he came back, he promised our parents that he would never so much as entertain the thought of running away again. Though he never stated where he had disappeared, his father always believed that his wanderlust had taken him to the City of the Corsairs. He also suspected that at the port city, Samir had joined the crew of a far-venturing merchant ship. My mother, however, always of the opinion that he had turned to piracy and gave as evidence the terrible scar that streaked across his left cheek like a flaming meteor.

For another year, Samir was a dutiful son, swearing to his father that he hoped to be a merchant just as his sire. Some months passed and once again we were walking in the forest when he confided to me that he had never slaked his thirst for adventure, and the urge had become an obsession, consuming his every thought! He could neither eat nor sleep, and when he worked on his father's accounts, his mind was easily distracted by thoughts of the sea. Only that day, his father had become enraged when he discovered drawings of ships in the margins of the account books. Then on the morrow, just as it had happened a year before, Samir ran away again. His father said that he would come back soon, but as the months passed and it drew nearer to my fifteenth birthday, Samir still had not returned.

The wedding date, which had been set the year before by the augerers, the haruspieces, the soothsayers, the seers and the fortunetellers, came and went, and still Samir had not returned. I was beyond myself with despair. My father vowed that he would break the engagement and pledge me to another whom I did not love and knew I never would love. Foolish as I was, I determined to find my beloved Samir, and so that night after gathering a bundle of food and some clothing, I set out for the west.

Skirting around the city and charting my course by the stars, I walked in the direction which I believed was west. Two days after I had left Ereniri, I came upon a broad road. Joy leapt up in my heart, for I was certain that it would lead me directly to the City of the Corsairs. I found much to my grief that it led me only to slavery.

Late that afternoon near dusk, a band of six men riding upon fine horses met me as they were traveling eastward. I hailed them and asked if I was going the right way. One of them, whom I later found out was the leader, told me that I was traveling in precisely the right way. Then swearing that they would protect me, one of them took me upon his horse. Instead of turning their horses westward, they continued riding to the east!

That night, I knew the fetid stench of the stale wine upon their lips and the sour smell of their sweat as all of them ravished me repeatedly. The one who had vowed to be my protector was the first one to rape me, tearing away my virginity forever in the midst of my screams and bloody agony.

The next morning, they took me with them, and each night thereafter, I was forced to lie with them, enduring the cruel thrusts of their throbbing swords. A month later, we reached a city far from my own city of Ereniri. There upon the slave block, they sold me to a dealer. This scoundrel later sold me to another, swearing that I was a virgin as pure as though I had just come from my mother's womb. When it was discovered that I was with child by a man I did not even know, my master became infuriated and beat me so severely that I thought that both the child and I should die.

As soon as I had recovered, he, too, offered me upon the slave block, my stomach bulging with a bastard child. One of my Master Esarhaddon's agents happened to be at the auction house that day, and after he had questioned me and learned of my plight, he purchased me in the name of the House of Huzziya. I was to be used for exactly what I have become - a harlot. By this time, I no longer cared, for I would never see Samir again. Being a good man, Master ordered that I was not to be put to public use until after the babe was born.

I must confess that, though I was abused by the outlaws who kidnapped me, I found that I had become a devotee of the altar of the Goddess of Love. Now night after night, I offer up one adoring oblation after another to her as my body convulses in fits of consuming lust.

That is my story.

_Her face serene, Sang-mí smiled as she strummed the concluding refrains of her melody, the lute resonating with her skillful playing._

Her face twisted with horror, Goldwyn cursed softly under her breath. She was enraged that the slaver had forced this poor, ignorant girl to be a harlot, servicing his men in their nightly debacles. Sang-mí was so deluded that she actually thought she enjoyed her life as a prostitute!

If Esarhaddon had any heart at all, he would have tried to redeem her instead of making her a toy for every man's pleasure! Sang-mí was a talented lute player, and if she had the opportunity to study and develop her abilities, she could have been a musician in the household of some kind and decent person. Instead, she was forced to give her body night after night to those grinning, leering beasts who were in the employ of Esarhaddon uHuzziya! Surely, the man was a willing pawn in the hands of his master, the Great Enemy Himself!

Goldwyn hated him with all her heart and all her soul. She prayed that Death would strangle the life out of Esarhaddon with his cold, pallid hand and drag him down to the grave forever!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An image of Sang-mí's lute can be found at <http://circlesofpower.byethost22.com/thecircles/book3/book3chapter27.html>


	29. Chapter 28 - A Strange Turn of Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

As the golden orb of the sun slipped into the west, Tushratta saw his last patient of the day, a little girl whose puncture wound of two nights before had become red and inflamed. First cleaning the wound, the physician then applied a poultice of moistened moldy bread crumbs and then bandaged up the lesion. All that could be done after that was watch and wait to see whether the ancient remedy would prove successful or not. He did not relish the thoughts of searing the young one's flesh with the cauterizing iron to burn away the poison. Weary with the cares of his profession, he was washing his hands when an excited Sang-mí rushed into the public room of the tent.

"Master, I have wonderful news! The lady is once again awake, and she seems greatly improved!" Sang-mí's words poured out in a breathless rush. "I entertained her with my lute playing, and then she asked me about my past. We talked for a while, and then she told me what had happened to her sons. While she is hopeful that they might have escaped, she is still devastated over their loss. The lady's memory has returned, although perhaps it brings her more sorrow than good." The slave girl sucked in a deep breath and opened her mouth to say more, but the physician halted her in mid-speech.

"Wait until I get my journal, Sang-mí," Tushratta admonished her as he placed a thick volume of bound parchment on the table. With a deep sigh, he wearily lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the carpet. Thumbing through the pages, he found the section that he wanted and then looked up at Sang-mí. "Continue, girl," he told her, jotting down a few notes.

"Master, I have something to confess. I wanted to believe that she was better, but my intuition warned me to be cautious." Sang-mí lowered her head, a deep flush coloring her cheeks, her voice barely above a whisper. "The lady begged me to let her hold Nib, but I could not let her take him, Master! I just could not! Though she seemed sensible, I was afraid she might lose her mind again and harm him!" Her lips trembling, she looked down at Tushratta fearfully. "Shall I fetch the whip so that you may punish this wicked slave?"

The physician scowled at the neat script which he had just written and drew a black line through the words. "No, a whipping would serve no purpose, Sang-mí, but you were foolish not to let the lady hold your child."

Falling to her knees before him, she took the hem of his sleeve and touched her lips to the material. "Master is merciful! May he endure forever!"

"I share your hopes, Sang-mí, but I doubt that I will live so long," he chuckled. "Now sit across the table from me. I need to ask you some questions." He watched as she gracefully rose and then walked around to sit at the other side of the table. "Would you say that the lady's condition seemed to improve, then suddenly worsened?" Dipping the brush in ink, he held it poised above the parchment.

A thoughtful look came over the girl's face. "No, Master, she seemed sensible all the time that I talked to her."

"But still you did not confident enough to let her hold your child." He gave her a piercing glance, his eyes dark under his furrowed brow. "Why did you not trust her?"

"Well, Master, it was nothing that she said or did." Sang-mí sucked in her lower lip, having difficulty finding the right words. "It was just a feeling." She shrugged.

"Sang-mí," the physician sighed, "I believe that you allowed your fears to take possession of your good sense. The lady has never been mad, merely dazed and confused. Actually, her mind is really quite strong... I do not believe that she could be driven insane, and I doubt very much that she would ever hurt your son."

Sang-mí regarded him questioningly. "Master Physician, how can you be so sure?"

"I am the master physician, Sang-mí," he winked at her, "and master physicians are never wrong. We know many things."

"Oh, Master," her dark brown eyes twinkled, "the good physician is teasing this poor slave girl!"

"Perhaps, but you will never know, will you?" He chuckled softly. "Now I think it is time to see how the patient is doing. You will attend me, Sang-mí." He collected his writing box and then led her into the inner chamber, where they found Goldwyn was sitting up in the bed. "Lady Goldwyn, you look much improved!" Tushratta exclaimed as he drew up a stool and sat beside her.

"Yes, I suppose I feel better," Goldwyn murmured softly as she pushed her tangled hair away from her face. "What has happened to me?" When she had awakened, his name had come to her mind. "Tushratta," the name did not sound harsh to her ears, although it was foreign.

"Some very unpleasant things, but they are over now," Tushratta remarked, his trained eyes taking in every nuance of her outward appearance. He was pleased that after her rest, she appeared much more relaxed. The stern set to her lips had softened, although her jaw looked every bit as stubborn as it had before. Her eyes did not look as weary as a cornered cat's, and her cheeks had a flush of color to them. When he touched her forehead, he could detect no signs of fever and her pulse was as steady as a clock. These were all good signs. "Do you think you would feel up to a bath from Sang-mí, or perhaps you would prefer some food?"

Goldwyn pondered his question for a moment. "A bath, yes, but I do not need anyone to help me. I am not an invalid!" She gazed at him defiantly. "What have you done with my clothes?

"My lady, do not be so quick to take offense. My only consideration was that you might be so weak that you would require assistance," Tushratta replied tactfully. "Your garments were torn and filthy, and I had ordered them burned. The shakh will see to their replacement." He turned to Sang-mí. "Tell the slave boys to heat water and bring in the tub."

"Yes, Master. The joy in doing your bidding lends speed to my steps!" Sang-mí smiled and bowed her way backward into the outer chamber. The physician did not seem disturbed at the lady's strange shift of moods, so perhaps he thought she was improving.

Tushratta turned back to Goldwyn and spread his journal across his lap, dipping the brush in a pot of ink. "While you are waiting, perhaps you would not mind answering some questions. I am attempting to understand what happened to you two nights ago."

"I do not wish to talk any more. I am thirsty," Goldwyn stated flatly.

Filling a cup with water, Tushratta placed it in her hand. "Just tell me anything you might remember. It does not have to make sense or even relate to any other part of your story." He smoothed his hand across the page and raised the pen, enjoying the feeling of the fine writing instrument in his hand.

As she drank the water, Goldwyn stared at him over the rim. This man seemed kind and considerate, a gentleman, a far cry from the brute whose near ravishment of her had precipitated her decision to take her sons and flee. "I can recall little," she replied, still unwilling to confide in him in spite of all his courtesy and manners.

"But the servant girl related to me that you had remembered everything--"

"The girl must have misunderstood," Goldwyn snapped. "I remember nothing! However, since you and the servant seem so certain that you know all that transpired, perhaps you would care to tell me about it."

Tushratta carefully studied her expression. "What is this?" he asked himself. "Why is she evading my questions? Is she playing games with me?" Sang-mí had told him that Goldwyn recollected everything that had befallen her, but now she had grown forgetful again. How strange!

"Certainly, Madame," he answered, deciding to humor her, "I would be glad to tell you everything that you might wish to know. You must remember. I was among the party that found you."

"Then surely you would know," Goldwyn smiled innocently, "where you found me."

"Aye, the tomb of a Gondorian nobleman of long ago. There was an inscription above the lintel stating who he was, when he died, his military record, his deeds, the things he had done for the City..."

All that Goldwyn could recollect was a voice that called to her in the tomb, beckoning, urging her to venture deeper. Whose voice was it? She thought of the wild flight through the ruins after she had left her sons and how she had run until she had fallen exhausted. There had been a darkness ahead of her... but she could not remember where it had led...

Why was she sitting in a tent talking to this man? And who was he? He had told her his name, but she had forgotten it once more. Why did it seem that whenever she was on the verge of remembering, some unknown yet irresistible force pulled her back? Every time she had a grip upon reality, she felt her feeble hold loosen and then she would fall back into oblivion.

"...Madame, do you remember now?" Tushratta leaned closer to her bed and took her hand between both of his. Concerned brown eyes probed deeply into hers.

"Did you say you are a healer?" Goldwyn asked after another long period of silence, her voice slurring, faltering like the halting, addled speech of a sleepwalker.

He was taken aback by the sudden change of subject, but his eyes never left hers. "Aye," he replied carefully. "That is what I would be called in some places, but I prefer to call myself a physician. The title is rather more professional than that of 'healer.'"

"And you were in the party which found me..." Her voice trailed off and then she spat out in contempt, "Then you are a soldier, following your orders to find my sons and me!"

"I am hardly a soldier, lady, though I can use a sword, at least fairly well, should I be called upon to wield it... which means if I were forced to it. Basically, though, I am a coward," he laughed politely.

"Did you see my sons?" she asked, ignoring his attempt at humor.

"You have three sons, I am told, but, no, we never encountered any lads in the place where we found you." This strange, disjointed speech was hard for Tushratta to follow, and he wondered if the woman had difficulty arranging her thoughts into any coherent order. He considered that she might have suffered a brain injury in the tomb, or even that she had been feeble minded or insane all along. Perhaps this was all some sort of game to her, and she was trying to entrap him into saying words which he never meant.

"You say it was a tomb where you found me. Perhaps I remember. Yes... yes... now I do. I was hiding there, taking sanctuary from your men." Her turquoise eyes were directed upon Tushratta, and he had the odd feeling that she was trying to draw him deep into their depths. Her voice, low and melodious, fell easily upon his ears, as though she were tantalizing him with the promise of some untold secret. He leaned closer.

"They are not my men, lady. I am a hired servant, same as they are."

Her eyes flashed in triumph. "Then you are even worse - you are a slaver!"

"No, my lady, I am a physician." The sudden harshness of her accusation broke the spell that she had begun to weave over him.

"Who is in the employ of a slaver. What a detestable occupation, if occupation it can be called!"

Though he did not like to admit it to himself, her words stung, but he hid his feelings well. "Then I am, by association, a detestable man." A hint of wry amusement appeared in his voice. "Now that we have settled that matter, perhaps we can go back to my questions."

"Your questions tire me, Physician. This time I will ask the questions." She laughed, an unpleasant, brittle laugh.

"Certainly," Tushratta replied. "Anything that might help in gaining understanding of what has happened to you." By the Gods! he thought to himself. Her moods were more changeable than the weather! He gripped her hand tighter, as though he would anchor her to reality. "Although you cannot seem to accept this, I am trying to help you."

"Oh, I am sure you are, Physician. You are a very helpful man... very solicitous and kind." Her words were dripping with sarcasm. "Do you recall any name I might have told you when you found me in the tomb?"

"Fasthelm," Tushratta replied, cautiously.

"That was the name of my husband, a brave and honorable Rider of the Mark. When I first heard your voice that night, I was confused and thought you were he, but how could I ever mistake someone so detestable as you for my husband!" she cried out in anger, pointing at him accusingly.

The physician regarded her calmly, one eyebrow raised. "Why are you saying all these things, lady? Do you feel you have put me in my place well enough, consigning another one of the worthless barbarian scum into the cesspool of the East?" He must not let her insults have an effect upon him. Indeed, she was playing some game of her own making, parrying with him. His brain quickly cataloged all the cases of madness that he could remember from the days when he had studied under the Master Physician in Bablon. There had been nothing that would compare with this case.

"Oh, do be quiet, you hateful man!" Goldwyn shouted. "There is no place miserable enough to send you and all your kind!" Suddenly she gasped as though a noose had tightened around her neck. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and her body arched up in a shuddering spasm. Her face was contorted into a grotesque mask of agony, and her pearl-white teeth gnashed her lips until the blood oozed from her mouth. Tushratta watched in helpless terror as she writhed beneath the sheets, her fingers clawing the material like talons.

"Goldwyn!" Tushratta cried as he rose to his feet, his eyes wide with horror. Her body rose up in another shuddering seizure, and then she moaned piteously like a kitten crying for its mother. She fell back trembling upon the pillows, the fit having passed as quickly as it had come. Her eyelashes fluttered open, and she looked up at him from blue eyes as innocent as a child's. The corners of her bloody lips drew up in a soft, beguiling smile. Her body wiggling provocatively under the sheet, she brought her right forefinger up to her lips and slowly licked the tip with a moist, pink tongue.

Tushratta stared down at her in disbelief, a feeling of revulsion spreading over him. "What are you doing, lady?"

"You could save yourself from retribution, you know. You really could." Her pale hand inched up to the hem of the sheet draped across her bosom. Her fingers coiling about the material, she slowly began to slide the covering down. Tushratta watched as it skimmed over her ivory skin like the tide receding from a beach, revealing her pink tipped breasts like seashells in the sand. Moaning softly, she arched her back as she clasped a full breast and teased the nipple into hardness. The artless expression of shy demureness still upon her face, she sucked her finger deeper into her mouth and offered her breast up to him. Looking every bit the succubus, she tempted him with unspeakable perils.

"Every man wants to save himself from an unpleasant fate. What must I do?" he hedged, trying to draw her out into revealing her intentions.

"Lie with me!"

"And how would that save me from punishment?" Tushratta asked calmly, trying to ignore her offered breast. She exhibited the symptoms of madness - the increased agitation, the rolling eyes, the rapid breathing, the sudden glow of perspiration that now covered her flesh, the irrational speech. Was she truly mad, or only pretending dementia?

Suddenly Goldwyn shrieked. "I do not know! I do not know!" she cried, looking around wildly. "Please help me!" With those words, she slumped back upon the bed in a swoon.

Tushratta was trembling, dazed at the bizarre turn of events. "I am only a physician, unqualified to treat such a case! By the Gods, I need advice! I will send a letter right away to the Master Physician in Bablon, describing this case in its full detail. Although he is the greatest physician in all of Khand, I doubt that even he will have the answer." He let his breath out in a long sigh and stroked his beard. "The moon has been turned upside down and there are dark days ahead... for all of us!"


	30. Chapter 29 - The Hamlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written By Elfhild

"Oh, Elfhild, we have made a terrible mistake by coming here!" Elffled moaned dolefully as she surveyed their surroundings. The pier had faded into a weathered gray, and the shabby buildings on the wharf scowled out at the river. The scene was a picture of loneliness, of sad and bitter spirits. Elffled shuffled her feet uneasily. "Save for a few skulking ghosts, we are utterly alone, like two wayward sheep which were carried away in a flood and cast up on a distant shore." Gnawing the inside of her cheek, she turned pleading eyes to her sister. "Perhaps we should go back to the river which brought us here! Surely that would be more promising than this dreary place!"

"I do not know about you, Elffled, but I am certainly not a stupid sheep!" Exasperated at her perpetually whining sister, she vented her frustration by stomping on the plank beneath her foot. Unbeknownst to her, the wood was rotten, and with a loud crash, the board collapsed under the strain. She shrieked as her foot disappeared through the newly opened rent in the wood. "Help!" she screamed, her leg stuck fast in the hole. Stifling a snicker, Elffled rushed over to pull her out.

"Go away! If I wanted your assistance, I would have asked for it!" Elfhild spat as she lifted up her hand and shoved her sister back.

"I was only trying to help," Elffled exclaimed, her lips twitching from suppressed mirth.

Once again on solid footing, Elfhild glared at her twin, as though she were somehow responsible for the board's collapse. Eying Elffled reproachfully, she made a great show of brushing wood dust and splinters from her dress. "Look at that, will you! I have scraped up my leg and torn a great rip in my stocking!"

Elffled had to press both hands to her mouth to keep from convulsing in a fit of laughter. "Why did you stop with just one board? With all that clomping and stomping, I am surprised that you did not destroy the entire dock!" A few giggles managed to escape. "So you say you are not a lost sheep... You seem to be in desperate need of a shepherd to keep you from getting into trouble! Baa! Baa!"

Clenching her fists, Elfhild let loose a loud growling groan of exasperation. Then a quick flicker of mischief gleamed in her aquamarine eyes.

"No, Elfhild! No! Do not do it!" Elffled wailed as the other girl stalked towards her. Just before she reached her, Elfhild lunged forward and shoved Elffled backwards over the edge of the wharf. Shrieking, Elffled landed in the river with a loud splash, sending sprays of water flying up to rain down upon the wharf. Elfhild walked to the side and looked down at her. Swimming to the surface, a soaked Elffled spat out a stream of greenish water and screamed, "Are you just going to stand there and not help me?"

"No! I am going to explore the hamlet, just the way you wanted! After all, you were the one who wanted to come here in the first place, not me!" Elfhild huffed. "Whenever you are finished playing in the water, you may follow me!" Turning away from the dock, she flounced towards the buildings, casting a quick glance over her shoulder only to stick her tongue out at her. She knew that if she had reached a hand down to pull her sister up, the other girl would have given her hand a mighty jerk and pulled her down into the river with her. Elfhild wanted to leave the riverbank safely behind before her sister could have an opportunity to wreak her vengeance.

Using her hand to shield her eyes from the sun's glare, Elfhild stared fixedly at a dirt road which led away from the waterfront and through the little hamlet. After the road passed through the settlement, it continued on towards the west - towards Rohan, their home. Without looking back, she knew from the sloshing sounds behind her that Elffled had managed to extract herself from the river.

"Well, you have successfully ruined these shoes," Elffled remarked vindictively, a certain perverse satisfaction in her tone. "They never fit my feet right in the first place, and now when the leather dries--" She was on a tirade, and would probably continue on for the next hour, expounding upon the terrible mistreatment she had received at the hands of her "vicious, cruel and spiteful sister," and how Elfhild had always bullied her because she was the younger of the two.

"I am not listening to a single word," Elfhild exclaimed in a singsong voice as she clamped her hands over her ears. "Whine, whine, whine is all you ever do!"

"Would you not complain, too, if your poor feet were forced to slip and slide over wet, ruined leather in a pair of shoes that never fit them in the first place?" Elffled muttered until she lapsed into a sullen silence.

And so the two intrepid adventuresses set off - Elfhild, her nose held imperiously high in the air, her bearing regal and proud; and behind her came a silent and sullen Elffled, sloshing water from her shoes with every step.

The village was little more than a boat landing with a small cluster of buildings facing the Anduin. Directly in front of them stood the largest of the structures, a three-story building, a plain waddle and daub affair. Its windows were missing their shutters, apparently ripped off at some time in the past by vandals, and its wooden doors stood ajar, some torn off their hinges. Between the thick timbers which composed its frame, the building's sides were whitewashed. However, their clean white surface had been marred by obscene drawings scribbled by orcish hands. Elfhild blushed hotly and turned her offended gaze away from a blackly humorous representation of a cyclops with one large red eye and a gigantic phallus.

"What is that, Elfhild?" her sister asked innocently, finally breaking her silence.

"The Dark Lord, I think, although I do not want to dwell upon that vile image too long," Elfhild replied with a shudder, both of disgust and fear.

"Do you think He really looks like that?" Elffled whispered, walking closer to get a better view. "How does He talk? He does not even have a mouth -- only a flaming eye... and that other... thing!"

"Quit looking at that atrocious monstrosity!" Elfhild snapped, roughly grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her back.

"My, but He is big--in height!" Elffled quickly added, trying to keep from rekindling her sister's righteous indignation.

"I do not want to hear anything more about it, Elffled! Such things are unseemly for anyone to dwell upon, and they give the Great Enemy more power!"

"Ohhhh, is that the source of the Enemy's power?" Elffled giggled.

"Not another word! Not one! Not one!" Elfhild shot her a scathing look.

"Well, if you insist, I will try to purge my mind and stop thinking about that... big... long... thing." She waved her hand towards the drawing. After falling silent a few moments, she spoke up again. "You should know that one cannot help what one thinks about... At least thinking about the Dark Lord's... thing... is better than thinking about my poor, miserable, aching feet!"

"I do not want to hear any more about this matter! This whole subject has become quite tedious and it is getting out of hand! Now take off your shoes and be quiet! You can carry them!"

"But, Elfhild, you have to admit, it stuck out like a sore thumb," Elffled added dryly, determined to have the last word. "One cannot help but notice... things... like that..."

"Oh, shut up!" Elfhild shouted and turned on her heel.

Beside the desecrated building nestled a nondescript structure, perhaps serving at one time as an office for a shipping clerk. The other buildings arrayed along the wharf appeared to be warehouses, storage sheds, offices or stables for animals.

"Not exactly the center of a prosperous and thriving city, is it," Elfhild commented wryly, glad at last that the discussion of the loathsome drawing had concluded. "My guess is that sometime before the war, this was a boat landing where some prosperous lord kept his goods before they were shipped down the Anduin. This big building might have been a warehouse where grain or other produce was stored," she remarked with an air of superior knowledge which she surely did not possess.

"Probably," Elffled shrugged disinterestedly. All of the talk about masculine attributes had started her thinking once again about the unknown singer who had stirred her soul with his haunting melodies. Gazing up the hill, she hoped that the barbarian singer might soon ride into view and save her from her sister, who tormented her constantly. "At least," she thought, "when we were with the other captives, I had a degree of peace. There, under the threat of rebuke by the elder women, Elfhild knew better than to try to boss me around all the time." Back when they were at home, she sometimes had wished that their father would agree to a brideprice from some young man, any young man, just so long as one of them would leave home.

Wandering over to the large three-story building, Elfhild noticed a sign above the large double doors. Sadly in need of painting, the sign sported letters and an elaborate coat of arms - a golden eagle on a field of red. "There are times when I could cry because I cannot read!" Sighing, Elfhild looked down at the ground before raising her head to gaze mournfully at her sister.

"Well, Hild, we cannot read a word of anything, and we never will learn how," Elffled stated flatly. "Peasants are not meant to read, but there is no point in fretting about something you cannot do anything about. That would be as silly as crying over spilled milk... no, that is the wrong way of putting it. More akin to weeping over milk that had never been taken out of the cow." Pausing a moment, she added, "Though if we are going to start wishing for things, I would wish for a new pair of shoes. These miserable things are ruined!"

"I know, I know! You have told me that over and over!" Elfhild snapped. "More spilled milk. Do not keep crying over it!" Turning back to the building, she eyed the dim interior, hoping that none of the ghosts would take offense to their snooping. "Maybe we can find something in here we can use, if we do not find orcs instead."

"What?" Elffled asked skeptically. "A rabid kobold?" As she bent down, she rubbed a hand over her sore, blister-covered foot. When she glanced up, she saw her sister's back disappearing into the building. "Wait for me!" she exclaimed as she hurried to catch up.

Standing in the center of the large structure, her hands on her hips, Elfhild frowned as she surveyed the chaotic clutter within the building. The muted light from the windows along the sides revealed overturned barrels, boxes, chests and crates, along with a jumbled gallimaufry of odds and ends, lying scattered about in disorder. "There is nothing here of any value," she muttered as she turned to leave, "not so much as a handful of wheat!"

"Maybe we might have better luck in the other buildings," Elffled suggested hopefully. "Perhaps if the kobold is in a generous mood, it will give us a piece of cake."

"Can you not be quiet?" Elfhild growled. "You are making my ears hurt!"

A search of the other structures fronting the wharf turned up more ransacked interiors and nothing of any use to them. The sisters discussed what might have happened, and concluded that the inhabitants of the hamlet had probably fled hurriedly at the beginning of the war. Taking everything with them that they could carry, they had left nothing behind for the invaders. At some later point, the orcs had come through, and, angered at finding nothing, disgraced the buildings with their foul scribblings and obscene art.

"But, Elfhild," her twin asked, a puzzled expression on her face, "why did the orcs not torch it?"

"I asked myself that question. My guess is their officers would not let them. Perhaps the invaders planned to use the facilities here for their own purposes. Who knows?" she shrugged.

"Oh, I do not think it was that way at all," Elffled replied mischievously. "I do not think they could bear to destroy their crowning masterpiece."

Bending down, Elfhild picked up a piece of pottery and hurled it at her sister, but Elffled scampered away just in time.

"We might as well look around the back of the buildings," Elfhild suggested after they had concluded their search of the buildings along the wharf. Walking to the corner of the row of structures, the sisters found a side street. They made their cautious way down the alley until they came to a slatted wooden fence around a small hut and garden. A lean-to was attached to the back of the cottage, perhaps serving as a shed for a cow or horse. The garden had long been left untended, with not even a weed poking its homely head through the barren ground. Another unimposing single-story building sat nearby. Everything about the place looked rundown and shabby.

"Oh, Elfhild, when I think of all the delightful vegetables that this garden must have grown at one time, I feel famished! Beans, peas, lettuce, onions, turnips, cabbage, beets, radishes. Then with a few fruit trees... Oh, what is the use of even thinking about it? We are going to starve out here! We will be two more ghosts in a land of the dead!" Clutching her stomach, Elffled moaned piteously.

Elfhild rolled her eyes. "Elffled, when you are not thinking about your feet, you are thinking about your stomach! Let us look around this cottage and the outbuildings. Perhaps we might be fortunate enough to find some grain or dried lentils or beans or crocks of pickled food that the former residents forgot in their haste to flee. And please stop complaining all the time about nothing to eat! I am just as hungry as you are!" With that, Elfhild stormed over to the cottage and gave the door latch a violent tug. She jumped back with a frightened squeak as one of the hinges broke and the door slumped sideways.

Shaking her head, Elffled put her hands upon her hips. "Yet another thing which you have broken today!"

When the sisters emerged from the adjacent shed a short time later, Elfhild held her nostrils pinched shut, her other hand brushing cobwebs from her hair. "Whew! That was a terrible mistake!" she wailed. "Oh, Elffled, why did you have to nose around in that dark, musty corner?"

"I scarcely see why you are making so much of it, Hild," Elffled replied stiffly. "How was I to know that a hen once made her nest there, laid her eggs, but had to leave before they could hatch? Poor hen! All that effort and nothing to show for it but a nest of rotten eggs!" She shook her head, sighed and chuckled softly. "Things could have been much worse, you know. I could have sat on the nest instead of stepping on the smelly thing."

"Could you not have been more careful?" Elfhild chided, fixing her sister with a disapproving frown. "When the eggs blew up, the noise frightened me so much that I nearly fainted! And the stench!" She vigorously fanned herself. "What a foul, putrid smell you unleashed! And we were so clean after our swim in the river. At least I was not the one who broke something this time!"

"The mess is only on my foot, and I have stepped in things back home that were almost as bad," Elffled assured her as she dragged her foot along the ground, trying to wipe away the filth. Grunting a little, she splayed her toes and dug them deeper into the earth in an attempt to rid herself of the smelly mess.

"Hurry up and clean off your foot; then go with me back to the dock. We will not be needing the raft anymore, so we should get rid of it. If the slavers find it, they will know that we have come this way," Elfhild muttered before turning and heading back towards the Anduin.

Elffled's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You mean we are not going to travel any farther upstream? I was under the impression you were against striking inland here and wanted to head upriver again."

Sighing in vexation, Elfhild stopped and turned around to face her sister. "Though I had planned for us to continue up the river farther, it appears that we no longer need to do that. I believe we have finally lost our pursuers." Sighing, she closed her eyes and balled her hands into fists. "Oh, curse those wretched Southrons anyway!" she cried angrily and stamped her foot upon the ground. "I never wanted to travel along the river for so long! Now we are horribly off course," she muttered glumly, her shoulders slumping.

For a brief moment of impish impetuosity, Elffled considered reminding her sister of what had happened the last time that she had stomped her foot in a fit of anger, but decided better of it. Her sister was in the midst of one of her emotional speeches and now was not the time to bring up that unpleasant incident. Usually, she did not have the heart to interrupt her when Elfhild was overcome with her own dramatic oratory. "Let her make her pretty speeches; they are harmless anyway, and she feels better after she has finished talking to herself. She is her own audience after all. I seldom listen to anything she says." Elffled could not resist a blithe smile. Her sister had begun speaking again, and Elffled made a conscious effort to listen.

"Perhaps I have been too cautious, but how was I to know what to do?" Elfhild asked rhetorically, her voice apologetic. "I have no idea where the Anduin even goes! Perhaps it might lead us to some horrible place, teeming with dragons and a horde of monsters. All I know for certain is that home lies to the west, and that is the way which we must go. Now hurry up and help me dismantle the raft!" Turning on her heel, Elfhild walked briskly back towards the wharf.

"Wait for me! I am almost done!" Elffled shouted as she scraped the last of the smelly residue from her foot. Catching up with her sister, she fell in step beside her. "Will the orcs pick up our scent from where we left the river?"

"I do not think we have to worry about orc trackers anymore. We left them far behind to the south. The brutes are so dull-witted that they would never think to follow us upriver. They probably believe that we killed ourselves by jumping in the river and drowning," Elfhild smirked in haughty self-satisfaction.

"What about those two Southrons whom we saw down river? If it were not from that big tree which blocked his view, the head slaver would have seen us! Certainly, the unknown singer must have caught sight of us!" Pausing, Elffled considered, "I wonder if he was handsome... his voice surely was!"

"Elffled!" her sister gasped. "Stop thinking about that accursed Southron! You call him a singer! Why, he was out of tune and sounded like an ass braying! I will wager if you saw him up close, you would probably find that he has broken teeth and foul breath that reeks of garlic and onions!"

Tossing her head, Elffled glared at her sister and put her hands on her hips. "But do you not think that he will follow us?"

"Perhaps you hope that he might," Elfhild retorted acidly. "My guess is that after he searched the riverbank, he rode as fast as he could back to the head slaver. We traveled so far after we saw him that we certainly must have outdistanced him."

"Then why bother to destroy the raft?"

"Because I could be wrong. Let us get on with it!" Elfhild increased her pace.

When they reached the wharf, the sisters worked together to strip the soggy strips of cloth away from the wood which composed the raft. After freeing all the sticks, they tossed them into the water. Elfhild kept the two plane-wood staffs, however. "Never know when we might need them," she considered prudently, "whether for weapons, or for walking sticks - though they are probably far better for the latter rather than the former."

For a moment, she watched the pieces of the raft drift down the river before turning to Elffled. Inhaling deeply, she let out her breath in a long sigh. "We might as well get started then."

"But my feet are killing me! Some of that nasty rotten egg has gotten into the blisters on my feet and is burning up my skin! I am afraid my feet will rot off!" Elffled began shuffling slowly with an exaggerated limp. "I might be crippled forever!"

Thoroughly exasperated with her sister's constant complaining and whining, Elfhild scowled and then broke into a trot up the small hill.

"You are going too fast!" Elffled wailed mournfully.

***

In spite of Elffled's aching feet, the sisters soon passed the outskirts of the small hamlet. Elfhild could not resist the urge to look back at the hamlet and the river beyond. Perhaps they should have traveled upstream a few more furlongs just to be safe, she thought, but home did not lie in that direction.

The land around them stretched away into fallow fields marked off by stone fences and broken by patches of scattered woodland. This country had once boasted rich grazing lands where fat sheep and cattle had feasted upon the tender, succulent grass. Now, though, save for an occasional flock of birds, nothing moved across the great, rolling plain.

The mid-afternoon sun reflected upon the harsh ground and glared into the twins' eyes as they tramped down the dusty, winding thoroughfare. Beads of perspiration shone upon their foreheads, moisture soaked their shoulders and backs and seeped down the valleys of their buttocks. Their damp thighs rubbed uncomfortably together as they plodded along. Both girls licked their lips, the road dust parching their throats.

Rising ahead them was a thick grove of cedars and juniper. Though many of the branches had lost their needles, still enough had clung to the trees to offer much appreciated shade. The cool shadows of the grove were too tempting to resist, and so they turned away from the road and walked deeper into the trees. The sisters plopped down in the shade, and ate their meager meal. They had nothing with which to wash the food down, however, for since taking to the road, they had discovered no streams. Too exhausted to renew the journey yet, they decided to rest for a while.

After a half an hour, Elfhild was on her feet again. "You were falling asleep, were you not?" she asked accusingly.

"Of course not," Elffled countered irritably, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"We need to be on the road again, and travel as far as we can before nightfall."

"Elfhild, you should have a flail as do the orcs. Then when you see your poor sister, her body stinging from a hundred aches and pains, her feet bloody and blistered, you can simply beat me into dragging my weary body forward, and I will try to hobble on a few more steps before I drop." Rising to her feet, Elffled melodramatically flung her arm over her brow and moaned piteously, her eyes rolling back in her head. Finally seeing that her game did not impress her sister, she gathered up her cloak and plane-wood walking stick. Grumbling, she leaned heavily on the stick and began limping back towards the road.

"Oh, do be quiet!" Elfhild growled as she picked up her possessions and walking stick. "You carp on and on like an old woman!"

The girls had walked almost two furlongs when they came to the edge of the woods. Elfhild motioned her sister to halt as she scanned the countryside ahead for sign of anything moving. They both sighed in relief when they saw none. The land this side of the forest appeared to be just as deserted as the countryside through which they had just passed. Far in the distance, they saw the whitewashed houses of a village of Anórien.

The twins looked at each other, the unvoiced question passing soundlessly between them: "What will we find there?"


	31. Chapter 30 - The Deserted Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A map of the village can be found at: <http://i79.photobucket.com/albums/j142/themagicsun/villagecolor.gif>

Chapter Written by Elfhild and Angmar

Even from a distance, the sisters were struck by the total silence that lay heavily upon the landscape. Nothing moved upon the highway or within the village itself. All living creatures seemed to have vanished as though a plague had swept through the streets, killing everyone and everything and leaving only the empty buildings. As they studied the village from afar, the sisters were struck by the frightening absence of any sound, for there was nothing to lighten the burden of silence. An air of sorrow hovered over the town, as though it were a shrine dedicated to perpetual mourning.

Elffled halted and turned to her sister. "Hild, no purpose will be served by venturing into yet another wretched, burnt out settlement destroyed by war! What can we hope to gain?" she asked, gesturing with her hand. "There is nothing here for refugees like us! Let us just circle around the town and seek the western road!"

"Elffled, you should not be so downhearted all the time!" Sighing, Elfhild shook her head. "Though we have not been able to find any food or anything of use to us in the other places, perhaps we will be lucky here. At least we ought to be able to find a well with fresh, cool water so we can quench our thirst. The day has been very hot and it has been long since we left the river." Attempting to buoy up the spirits of both of them, Elfhild forced her voice to be as cheerful as she could make it. The unnatural gladness reminded Elffled of some overly cheerful magpie, and she frowned. With a little snort of disapproval, Elfhild tramped on, her grumbling sister lagging behind, each footstep raising puffs of dust on the dry roadbed.

"Elfhild, this place is just as bad as the other village! Look!" Elffled pointed a condemning finger ahead. "Even from here, we can see there has been a fire! Though I am thirsty, I am not going inside this settlement! It is an evil place!" Planting her feet firmly, she crossed her arms over her bosom and glared at her sister.

"Well, just stand here in the middle of the road, never knowing what you missed by your stubbornness!" Elfhild tossed her head saucily. "I am going to explore!"

Elffled held her chin high and turned up her nose defiantly. "Go on then! Just go on! I do not care! You will find out I am right!"

"Oh, be a complainer if you want to be!" Elfhild spat out, her hands on her hips. "Stand out here in the hot sun and pout all day for all I care! I will be back as soon as I finish looking around." She turned on her heel and flounced away towards the village.

"If Elfhild had never listened to that foolish, goose-brained Goldwyn, we would not be in this present fix," Elffled silently fumed to herself as she watched her sister's form rapidly receding towards the village. "Goldwyn always thought that she was better than everyone else and far wiser, too. Just because her family was well-to-do and could read and write gave her reason to think that she could put on airs. Anyone would have thought that she was a noblewoman, but, oh no, she most certainly was not!"

Her eyelashes lowering halfway over her icy blue eyes, Elffled smirked contemptuously. "Even though her husband was a landholder, she was the same as the rest of us, a peasant! Hmmm... Well, maybe Goldwyn was a little different," she thought wickedly, chortling to herself. "Her precious feet always had shoes on them, while ours were bare-shod. She never blundered into runny, stinking piles of hen manure the way we did. Might have done her some good if she had! Some chicken dung squishing between her bare toes might have brought her down from her great high horse to the same level as the rest of us!"

Elffled could see that her sister was nearing the buildings at the outer limits of the village, and she had not glanced back at her once! Elffled had never believed that her sister would just go and abandon her. They had always been inseparable. This was not like Elfhild at all. What had gotten into her lately? She had been acting odd ever since she had dreamt that strange nightmare and wandered off in her sleep. "But, yes," Elffled reflected sourly, "Elfhild is just going to leave me standing here! The days are dark when you cannot even depend upon your own sister!"

A sudden thought came to her, sharp in its intensity and dire in its portent. What if someone should come riding down the road? What if there were orcs lurking in the buildings? Elffled looked around fretfully, and though there was nothing moving in all of the broad sweep of meadow and pastureland, she did not feel safe. She felt naked and very vulnerable, as though she were a tiny ant on a broad, flat platter and the cook, an enormous giant, loomed above her, a thumb poised to crush her. There was no place to hide in this great open expanse, not a tree, not a bush, not a shrub, not even so much as a hole in the ground!

Licking her lips, she swallowed nervously. Was that the sound of hoof-beats she heard; was the dark shape of a bush in the distance actually an approaching rider? Panic coursed through her. "Elfhild!" she shouted as she raced off to catch up with her. "Wait for me!"

Behind her, Elfhild heard the slapping of her sister's wet skirt as her rapid strides brought her closer. "I thought you did not want to see the town," she remarked superciliously, not even turning her head to glance at the other girl.

"I changed my mind," Elffled puffed as she fell into step beside her sister.

At the outskirts of the silent village, the sisters had their first close look at the mournful reminders of the conflagration which had swept through this part of the town. The first building that they came to was a large square structure on the right of the road. Though its thatched roof had been destroyed in the blaze, its badly scorched walls were still standing. The wording still legible, a partly charred sign over the front door hung askew, suspended by a single rusting chain. The forlorn-looking sign gave evidence that the lord who had named the village long ago believed that the place held good promise, for he had optimistically named it Ivrenlaer, which translates loosely as "Fruitful Meadow." Of course, since neither one of the sisters could read, the name was meaningless to them, but had they been able, both girls would have quickly seen the wry irony.

"Elfhild, look!" Elffled exclaimed, pointing at the sign. "It was a tavern! See the two tankards which touch rim to rim in a toast?"

"No more toasts will be raised here." Elfhild's smile was bittersweet. "Even though we have a terrible thirst, there will be no draught for us, for the bar has closed forever."

The next building on the right was also missing its thatched roof. Blackened and burnt, the supporting posts rose out of the ground like rotten teeth. The roof rafters which had escaped the blaze were charred and hung twisted and askance. The building beside it was a buckled ruin filled with assorted debris and surrounded by a random collection of rubbish.

"Perhaps it was a toy maker's shop?" Elffled, her emotions close to spilling over, fell into silence and stared at the mournful scene for a while. When she finally regained the fortitude to speak, her voice cracked. "See all the toy soldiers lying around in front of the building, either burnt or broken?"

Elfhild bent down and picked up a woebegone tin horse. "Poor thing! Blind in both eyes, its mane and tail burnt off, and missing a front leg! The knight who owned this proud steed can no longer give his lady love a ride upon its back nor can he gallop into battle upon his destrier!"

Elffled turned on her sister. "Elfhild! You have the most irritating habit of being facetious at the most inappropriate times! This is not the occasion to be light and witty. Think!" she exclaimed, holding her arms out, palms open. "Where are all the children? What has become of them? Laugh at me if you will, but these wretched, ruined toys have upset me as much as anything could! They were made for children who will never play with them now! How horrible!" she exclaimed, nervously clenching her fingers together.

"Oh, 'Fled, I know it is terrible, and perhaps I am wrong for trying to be light, but if I think about all the tragedies of these days for too long, I shall shrivel up and die!" Elfhild looked down at the broken toy horse in her hand. At one time, it would have been quite grand, destined to be the prized possession of some fortunate child, the lucky son of a prosperous townsman. Neither Elfhild nor her brother or sister had ever owned a toy so fancy; all their playthings were made either of wood or cloth. Slowly she let the horse slip from her fingers to fall with a metallic clang upon the cobblestones.

"Oh, I know that you put on a good show, just like you did back at home when we put on plays for Father and Mother." Elffled's lips twitched in a weak little smile. "But these toys! We found that horrible piece of bone in the other village, and in this one, we find these pathetic toys, and both are equally tragic! The children who would have played with these little horses are now dead or languishing in some miserable slave camp! Oh, Hild!" she cried out, her face clouding up with tears. "My heart is heavy within me! Every place we journey, it is the same - burnt out villages, abandoned buildings, utter and total desolation! If we find any bodies or bones here, I think I shall go mad! The world has been plunged into grief and despair! Can you not see it? The Dark Enemy has won!"

Elffled fell into her sister's waiting arms and buried her head on her shoulder. "I want it all to go away!" she sobbed miserably as she clenched the back of her sister's dress. "Just close my eyes and it will all vanish as though it never was!"

A comforting arm about her sister's waist, Elfhild stroked the other girl's hair with her other hand and waited for the storm of sorrow to spend itself. "Just calm down now. You cannot bring them back by crying." Close to tears herself, she looked up into the heavens for strength.

Her hair disheveled, her face ruddy, Elffled opened her swollen lids and looked at her sister. She brought a hand up to her runny nose, wiped it with her fingers and then hiccuped. "Do I look terrible?" she sniffed, blinking away tears.

"Aye, you do." Elfhild smiled sympathetically.

"All right, I have had my cry." Elffled pulled a rag from her sleeve and, blowing her nose loudly, she mumbled, "I am ready to go on now. I know I behaved terribly, but when I saw those ruined toys, everything just toppled in on me. After that, I think I can face almost anything." Sniffling loudly, she wiped her nose again and attempted a brave smile. "Come now," she sniffed again as she slipped her hand into Elfhild's.

As they followed the road towards the center of town, the devastation became worse. On either side of the street were the stark skeletons of two buildings. The destruction was so thorough that the sisters could not even guess the sorts of shops the structures might once have contained. Silent now, overwhelmed with the tragedy, the sisters walked, viewing the wreckage all about them. Facing each other across the road, two more gutted buildings came into view. Glass lay strewn in front of the structures, glinting in the light of the sun. A few more steps down the road took them to a crossroads in the center of the burnt part of the village.

"Look, Elffled, there is the village well, there, near the trees!" Elfhild exclaimed, pointing to a vacant lot where the stone enclosed base of the well stood. Behind the well was a row of neatly planted fruit trees, all barren and leafless now. "Surely we are in luck! There is even a pail hanging from the windlass!"

Hurrying over to the well, Elfhild reached for the pail. As she was about to lower the bucket into the dark interior, she saw to her horror that the shaft had been filled with dirt, charred debris and broken stone. From the damp chamber below, a foul, putrid stench, reeking of rot and decay, wafted up to assault her nostrils.

"The damned orcs have been at work here! They have destroyed the well!" She turned disappointed eyes to her sister. "It smells like they must have thrown something dead into it to profane it even more! I feel like crying!" Coughing, she turned from the well and walked towards the street.

Sighing, Elffled licked her lips as she caught up with her. "Oh, Elfhild, I am so thirsty! If I do not have a drink soon, I am going to dry up like a flower in a drought!" she muttered as she wiped her sweat-dampened brow with her sleeve. "My throat is as dry as the dust on this road! What are we to do? Surely there must be a stream around here someplace! They could not have destroyed everything!"

"A draught of water would be every bit as welcome to me as it would be to you! Let me think..." Elfhild cradled her chin in her hand, her brow furrowed in thought. "Remember when we were swimming upstream and saw a stream emptying into the Anduin about a furlong or so below the dock? My guess is that if we follow this road that leads south, we are sure to come upon it. Though it would be out of our way and we will be forced to backtrack to the crossroads, it would be our best chance to find water."

"Then let us find the stream! I hate this dreary place!" Elffled exclaimed petulantly, sucking her lower lip into her mouth.

"Wait - look across the road!" Elfhild exclaimed, pointing at a building across the way. "The sign of the anvil proclaims that this was once a blacksmith's forge. Though the building has sustained some damage from the fire, perhaps we can find some scrap of metal that we could use as a weapon!" In spite of Elfhild's hopes, an inspection of the shop revealed that everything of any worth had long been carried away.

"That was disappointing," Elffled muttered, kicking a charred chip of wood out of her path as they came out of the shop. "But everything is dismal and disappointing anymore," she declared moodily. "Do you know something? I feel like an old woman, and I am still young!"

"Maybe that is because you are acting like a whining old crone! Be quiet for a while! Look, what is that?" Elfhild exclaimed energetically, pointing towards a long, low one-story structure. "A building that is not burnt!" She dashed past her sister and then stopped and looked at the sign. "This was a barbershop. See the scissors? Let us go in and take a look."

"Elfhild, you sound like a child on her first trip to the market. Have you not learned anything yet?" Elffled grumbled, jogging up to her sister. "It is not worth our time to look into any of these buildings. Do you not realize by now what has not burnt has been looted?"

"You certainly are cheerful today," Elfhild smiled sweetly as she ventured into the building. She was not in the shop long before she returned, muttering dismally. "You were right."

"Told you so," Elffled returned triumphantly. "Look over there! Something that has not wholly gone to wrack and ruin!" She pointed across the street at a collection of stalls and kiosks which stretched towards the south.

"The fire never reached this far. This must have been the marketplace of the village," Elfhild told her after studying the rundown looking grounds.

"This must have been a bustling little village to support such a large market. How exciting it must have been here on market day!" Elffled exclaimed, her mood brightening when she saw that the fire had not destroyed all of the village. "I can just see all the farmers bringing their horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, chickens, and geese to be sold at the livestock auction. Remember the horse sales back home, and how Father would take us all to see them?" The smile on her face faded away as she was hit with the deepest of sorrows at the bittersweet memories. Choking back the lump in her throat, she surveyed the abandoned stalls and kiosks, trying to forget, at least for a while, the sorrows of the past and present. "I can just imagine their wives and daughters selling delicious pies, cakes, pastries, and other wonderful things to eat. Oh, I can just taste a delectable piece of cake drenched with cream and topped with plums and cherries!"

"Since we are feasting upon imaginary food, I would like to have a piece of roast beef with some succulent boiled vegetables." Falling back to her usual hopeful mood, Elfhild licked her lips. "Hmmm... carrots, cabbage, onions... No, I have changed my mind. I want a roast duck or goose... and a delicious salad of fresh greens, green onions and burnet, topped with some dressing made from vinegar, honey and linseed oil. For desert, strawberries and fresh cream, and some red pudding made from currants... I am not particular, just so it is sweet and juicy."

"You forgot the bread and cheese," Elffled giggled, getting into the spirit of the fantasy, eager as youth always is to escape the grim realities of existence and wander into the realms of make-believe. "I must have freshly churned butter with my bread and rolls. Oh! And some sweet berry wine! As long as we are eating food that we do not have, we might as well make a great feast of it!"

"At least we do not have to wash the nonexistent dishes," Elfhild giggled. "Now let us hurry along to the stream. But - look - there is another unburnt building just up ahead!" Trotting briskly, she came to the sign above the door. "A wainwright," she pointed to the miniature wagon wheel hanging above the door. "Nothing in there either. I can see through the open doorway," she remarked glumly.

"And this next one is going to be as empty as all the rest." Elffled pronounced as they walked towards the next building. "This shop belonged to a leather worker. See the boot on the sign? Oh, how I wish this shop were still in operation! I could certainly use a new pair of shoes!"

"And what would you use for money to pay for them?" Elfhild grinned ruefully. "Of course, since we are eating imaginary food, we might as well buy imaginary things. You want shoes, but why be content at that? While you are at it, perhaps a richly crafted bag, belt or pouch would suit you. However, I would advise something far more practical for us - oil-skins and blankets. Then we could sleep on one and cover ourselves with the other and dream the night away without fear of being drenched by rain or dew."

"Then since we are buying and paying with imaginary money, I will have some of everything!" Elffled giggled. "New clothes, new shoes, and a generous meal washed down with wine!"

"'Fled, quit thinking about food and finery for the time. We have come to the last of the buildings on this street. See the image of the pot?" Elfhild waved to the sign. "The man who ran this shop was a potter. Oh, and look, Elffled! You can see the stream from here! What a glorious sight! I will race you to it!" she shouted as she took off at a sprint towards the creek.

"No fair, Hilde! My feet hurt too much! I can barely walk!" Elffled groaned, watching her sister as she headed towards the stream.

"But you surely can complain!" Elfhild taunted as she left her sister standing behind at the potter's shop. She could taste the cool water already!

Soon she came to a fine stone bridge over the stream. There she paused, breathing heavily and resting her arms on the stone railing of the bridge. Downstream along the northern banks of the watercourse, she could see a large grove of trees. On the southern side of the stream were wide fields bordered by a section of woods a goodly distance away. Her eyes followed the course of the clear flowing stream until they rested on a large three-story building with a few outbuildings nearby. "A mill!" she thought, jubilant with the discovery. "What a pity it would have been had it been destroyed!"

At last catching up with her sister, Elffled stood beside her on the bridge. She could not believe her eyes and questioned whether the mill were only an illusion, a trick of her distraught mind. Her eyes shining, she turned to Elfhild. "Do you see it, too? Is there a mill really there?"

"Aye, it is really there." Unwilling to take her gaze from the mill, Elfhild smiled to her sister out of the corner of her eye.

"What a fine mill, and set in such a pretty place with the trees all about it! How I would like to see the miller grinding grain! But alas, the mill wheel no longer turns!" Elffled looked to her sister, her eyes pleading. "Oh, please, let us explore it! I would like to see the wheel up close and go inside and see the stones that grind the meal. Remember when we used to watch the miller grind grain at the mill back at home? Let us explore!" She tugged at Elfhild's sleeve like an excited child at a fair.

"No," Elfhild stated firmly, shaking her head. "The mill will be just as empty as the other buildings were. Now we are going quench our thirst and then we are going to return to the crossroads, where we will head west. We do not have time to tarry for anything, no matter how refreshing to the eyes it might be."

"Go ahead," Elffled shrugged, releasing her sleeve. "Go wherever you want. I am tired of following your orders all the time! I am hungry, thirsty, sweaty, filthy, and no matter what you say, I am going to see the mill!" Their tempers flaring once again, the sisters scowled at each other until at last Elffled spun around and stormed off.

Elfhild was flabbergasted at her sister's mutiny. She started to protest but could only stare after her twin as she flounced across the bridge. Open-mouthed, she watched as Elffled gingerly made her way down the short, steep slope which led off the road. Never glancing back, Elffled stopped to drink a few handfuls of water at the stream's edge. Then she rose to her feet and strode purposely towards the mill.

"Oh, damn it, Elffled, wait for me!"


	32. Chapter 31 - Heat of the Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

When Elfhild reached her sister, she found her gazing in bemused fascination at the mill pond. Slanting across the water, the late afternoon sunlight painted the pond a shimmering golden hue, making it appear as though the bottom were covered with precious stones. A gentle breeze blew across the surface, rippling the reflected images of the tall, leafless trees which hung over the bank and setting them into a graceful dance.

"Is it not lovely, Elfhild!" her twin exclaimed dreamily, turning to face her sister. "I would like nothing more now than to strip off these horrid, filthy rags and miserable shoes and dive into the pond! I think I could soak in the cool water the rest of the afternoon!"

"You cannot do that! How foolish of you even to think such a thing!" Elfhild was amazed at her sister's preposterous notion. They needed to keep moving lest they be discovered by one of the enemy scouting parties that operated in the area!

"Why not?" Elffled's glaring eyes challenged her sister. "You are such an advocate of gamboling in the water. After all, it was your plan to take to the river as though we were otters!"

"If you think I enjoyed that little dip in the Anduin, you are very much mistaken!" Elfhild huffed indignantly. "Traveling up the river was simply the only way that we could possibly escape from the trackers at that time. Must you keep repeating this over and over? You are wasting time!" Annoyed, she stamped her foot for emphasis. "We cannot stay here! We must get back on the road and travel as far as we possibly can before nightfall." She felt her temper rising like steam in a tea kettle when the fire beneath it is built up higher. Still her twin had not budged an inch from the side of the pond, and from the way her jaw was clenched in rigid determination, it did not look as though she were going to move anytime soon. "Elffled, you are acting peculiar! What has come over you?"

"Oh, nothing." Elffled turned to gaze sullenly at the placid pool. "Nothing except I am completely worn out, and to be honest, I am weary of listening to you all the time!" Then, realizing how unkind her words had been, Elffled put her hand to her mouth and looked apologetically at her sister. "Oh, Elfhild! I am sorry to be so out of sorts and say such mean things, but it is so unbearably hot and sultry this afternoon! The heat has made me so wretchedly, terribly miserable! I cannot bear the reeking stench of my own body, and my clothing is so wet that the material sticks to me like glue! If I took off my poor dress and twisted it in my hands, I could wring the sweat out like water! And the lice! The little monsters are driving me mad! I can barely sleep at night for their crawling through my hair and over my body! And, ohh, by the Gods, how I long for a good hot bath, a decent meal, and a night's sleep in a real bed!" She raked her fingers through her hair and frantically scratched through the tangled mat. "Ohhh! I cannot bear anymore!"

"Elffled..." Elfhild reached over to put a consoling arm around her sister's shoulders, but the other girl tore herself away from her embrace.

"Stop acting like a big sister all the time! Nothing you say or do can help! All you do is order me about all day, as though I were a simpleton!" Immediately, Elffled felt guilty when she saw the hurt expression on her sister's face. Yet, refusing to apologize anymore, she lifted her chin and, stiffening her back, she stomped away along the stream towards the mill. She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Elfhild was as bad as the lice; they were both driving her mad!

Elfhild stared open mouthed at the retreating form of her sister. Oh, everything was going all wrong, dreadfully, terribly wrong! They should be miles from this place, and if they could start now and make good time, they might even reach the Great West Road by nightfall. Instead, they were wasting time while her sister threw a foolish tantrum, as though she were a little girl who cried and stamped her feet when she was refused a piece of hazelnut cake. What sort of nonsense was this? Had her common sense fled? What was the matter with her?

All the strain was far too much, and the headache of this morning was beginning to return in full fury. Her temples pounding, Elfhild clutched her forehead and groaned in pain. Closing her eyes, she massaged her throbbing skull, but the action only made her head hurt worse. When she opened her eyes again, the trees across the pond shimmered and undulated as though they were being viewed through the glistening haze above a blazing fire. Alarmed by what she saw, she stared with wide eyes at the northern bank of the pond. Were those translucent figures dancing among the glittering bars of distorted light? Elfhild passed her hand over her disbelieving eyes, and when she looked again, her vision was crystal clear. There was nothing across the stream save for the dense thicket of trees. "Only a trick of the heat upon my weary eyes," she reasoned with herself.

Now where had her sister gone? Elfhild looked downstream, but she was no longer able to see Elffled. Where was she? Had she gotten herself into some sort of trouble? A dire premonition that something terrible was about to happen struck her like a bolt of lightning. Cold dread clenched her heart like the icy hand of a barrow wight, and she began to shake with fear. Something must have happened to Elffled!

"I must find her!" Elfhild tore off at a run, following the edge of the pond as it led towards the mill. The pounding in her head intensified with each fall of her feet upon the hard, dry ground, until it felt as though her skull would burst with the pressure.

The intense heat combined with air heavily leaden with moisture made running seem more like swimming through a swampy bog. Trembling and panting with the exertion, Elfhild slowed her pace to a sluggish trot. Sweat poured down between her shoulder blades, soaking the back of her dress, and trickled down the valley of her buttocks. She felt as though she were back at home on a cold winter's day when her mother was cooking cabbage, and the house became so steamy that the air was almost impossible to breathe.

She must stop and rest! Gasping, she stumbled to a halt, her chest heaving up and down. Why did her headstrong sister have to run off like that? It was so unlike her to do such a thing. Something had brought about this transformation; Elfhild was certain of that. What could it be?

Instantly her horrified mind knew the cause! The sorcerer! ...Or whatever the mysterious stranger was; perhaps a demon lord, the commander of some legion of the spawn of hell! Ever since they met him, everything had gone woefully wrong, as though their path were now doubly cursed. Surely this evil man had bewitched her twin!

At the mere thought of the hooded stranger, she felt the hair on the nape of her neck rising. Reeling from the sudden sensation that she was being watched, Elfhild clutched her bosom and looked with wide, fearful eyes at her surroundings. She imagined that his eyes were riveted upon her, boring into her, undressing her body and beholding her naked, and then seeing beyond her flesh to her very soul. Strangely, she was excited by this feeling of terror, as though terror were a person, an entity, a being, a reality in itself. Bizarrely titillated, she shivered with the thrill, feeling her body tingle with these macabre fantasies.

Through her drenched bodice, her fingers could feel a throbbing icy coldness where his tongue had lathed her bleeding flesh. Morbidly fascinated with the sensation, she clutched her breasts and felt her nipples harden against her palms. Her face, already flushed from the heat, reddened deeper with shame. For the first time in her life, she felt a perverted urge to touch herself between her legs, and fondle the aching place which he had awakened to vibrant, pulsing life. Her heart hammered wildly in her chest and resonated inside her skull.

Even though the least thought of the fell stranger would send her mind recoiling in horror, still she longed for him to return for her. She yearned for the sound of his aloof, icy voice, the voluptuous taste of his kisses, and the feel of his devilishly tickling tongue as it probed deep into her mouth. A scandalous vision dared to caress her mind with the lightest of touches, and she imagined his amazing fingers stroking the secret places of her body, unleashing the springs of her desire. Oh no! She could not think such things! She gritted her teeth, trying to purge her mind of the wicked thought. Her sister was not the only one who had been bewitched! He had entrapped her in the most obscene of all sorceries - a spell of rampant, burning lust that demanded to be satisfied but had no way of being quenched! How could they ever fight such power and throw off the yoke of his dark slavery?

A chill rippled through her body from the back of her neck, across her shoulders and down to her hips, and she shivered from head to toe, her teeth chattering. In spite of the warmth of the late afternoon, she shivered as the frigid cold penetrated to the marrow of her bones. At that moment, a cloud must have crossed over the sun, for a cold, black shadow passed over the water, and the pond grew dark and murky before her eyes.

What was happening to her? Her legs felt as weak and wobbly as those of a newborn lamb. Unreasonable panic rose within her, and her vision blurred as a sense of unreality enveloped her senses. The pond was seething, frothing with a cold, misty vapor. Swaying, she feared she might faint and topple into the pond and never rise again to the surface. The water lay before her like a great gloomy sea of unfathomable depths, and as she peered dumbly into its recesses, the pond became a swirling whirlpool dragging her into the core of its fury. A great dread of drowning beset her, and it seemed her lungs were filling with water. She was suffocating! Elfhild sucked in great gulps of air, but the more she struggled to breathe, the more she gasped and choked. Flinging her hand to her forehead, she pressed her palm against her brow, attempting to drive away the waves of nausea which threatened to engulf her.

***

She had been pulled down to the very depths of the pond. Though her disbelieving mind refused to accept it, her limbs would not obey her and remained as lifeless as those of a corpse. Whenever she attempted to breathe, her lungs filled with water! Her eyelids were stuck tightly together, as though secured by glue. She could not lie here like this! She must force her deadened limbs back to life!

Calling upon the last remnants of her strength, she fought to open her eyes. Slowly they came open like the rusted hinges on a door, and she saw far above her through a greenish gray haze a narrow beam of sunlight. She could hear her grandmother's voice calling softly, up where the sunlight lay, where the living dwelt. Her voice, a whispering echo of what it had been in life, beckoned comfortingly to her.

"I am so weary, Grandmother. Let me lie here a while..."

The voice sighed despairingly. "You must get up! You must! To stay here is folly!"

"No..." Elfhild turned her head away, her eyes refusing to meet her grandmother's loving gaze. Her eyelids drooped down, closing once again in weariness.

The gentle voice silenced, slipping away into memory. Elfhild felt a coolness, a gentle lapping of the water as she slid deeper into the mud at the bottom of the pond. The slime caressed her, coaxing her to stay there forever upon its soft cushions. Pond weeds gently moved in the current of the water, swaying like the fronds of willow branches. They seemed to be beckoning to her, and she could hear their soft whispers: "Rest... rest..." It would be so easy just to slip away...

Sighing, she fell into a light slumber, her muscles relaxing, a state of bliss and peace surrounding her. The mud was softer than any feather mattress upon which she had ever slept, and she nestled into its softness like a kitten pressing against its mother for warmth. She sank down into the muddy cloud, down, down... Wait - why was she slowly falling down deeper into the darkness? The ground was sinking beneath her! Panic shot through her senses. She was in a mire of quicksand and it was pulling her to the thick mud at the bottom of the pool! She must escape! Her grandmother's voice again came to her, urgently pleading this time, encouraging her to rise from this bed of death.

She could not breathe; the air would not pass from her straining lungs. She was dying! Struggling, Elfhild finally forced the putrid air from her chest. As her breath gushed forth, she gazed in horror as bloody bubbles drifted towards the surface. Fighting against the unyielding ooze that threatened to suck her down into its murky depths, she forced her unwilling limbs to move. She strained and fought, until at last her body broke free from the slime. Flailing her arms and legs, she began to swim upward through the muddy water. As she moved, the viscous mud swirled and billowed about her. If she could only reach the surface! Then as she saw the sunlight growing closer, an intense pressure began to weight down her chest. Her heart hammered wildly. She must combat this grim enemy!

Struggling, fighting, her arms thrashing, she fought her way through layer after layer of fetid, murky water. At last she could see the muted glow of light filtering through a heavy ceiling of gray. She was almost to the surface when she saw a dark shape moving towards her. A pair of large, lidless eyes faced her, terrifying her with their grotesque blandness. Drawing her hand back in a fist,she struck desperately out at the monster.

"Elfhild! You could have broken my nose! As it is, I think you have given me a black eye!" Taking a step backward in the knee-deep water, Elffled glowered down at her sister, but the hostile look quickly melted into one of concern. The back of Elffled's skirt was pulled betwixt her legs and secured in her belt, allowing her to move about in the pond without getting her clothing drenched.

Blinking, Elfhild looked around in bewilderment. Glancing down, she saw that she was naked, the lower half of her body immersed in the shallow water. A wet rag lay draped over her forehead, the tattered material dripping tiny droplets of water down the sides of her cheeks and onto her already soaked hair. Elffled scooped up a handful of water and splashed it on her sister's breasts and stomach. As she watched it seep away to the sides, Elffled smiled and cupped her hand into the water, offering her sister a drink from her hand.

"I was worried nearly out of my mind! I thought you were dying! I think you would have, too, if I had not reached you when I did!" Elffled's words poured out in a disorganized jumble. Scarcely pausing for breath, she rushed on. "Actually, though, I do not think that you were unconscious for very long before I came back to find you."

"I thought I was dying, too," Elfhild sighed weakly.

"Oh, Hild, I was so worried! You must have been overcome by the heat! Did you stop to drink when you followed me to the pond? Surely you must have!"

"No," she murmured, her voice soft and frail. "I was in too big a rush to find you, and I drank nothing."

"Oh, Hild! What a foolish thing to do!" Elffled's face was pained with worry, her disappointment with her sister mitigated by her fear.

"I am not the only one who does foolish things. You have been known to do them, too," Elfhild chided mildly, every word an effort.

Holding up her sister's head, Elffled dipped her hand once more into the water and let the life-giving droplets trickle over her sister's lips. "Oh, do drink more!" she fretted, her eyes continuously returning to Elfhild's face. "I am so sorry! I never should have run away like that! I do not know what came over me, but I wanted to see the mill. It was something solid, substantial, good, in this nightmare where we have been living for weeks. Forgive me, oh, please, do forgive me!"

"There is nothing to forgive," Elfhild murmured as her tongue licked the droplets of water from her sister's hand.

"We must promise each other right now that we are going to stay together and not become separated." Elffled's eyes were pleading.

"I promise, but you must promise, too."

"Oh, I do, Elfhild!" She filled her cupped hands with water and returned them once again to Elfhild's lips.

"Now move aside," Elfhild directed after she had satisfied her thirst. "I have recovered now, and I surely do not want to lie here in this pond any longer. I have been here long enough as it is."

"No!" Elffled gasped. "Not yet! Rest a while longer!"

As Elfhild struggled to sit up, she felt a wave of darkness pass over her eyes, and she fell back against the bank. "Perhaps I am not ready for this yet," she smiled ruefully.

"What do I have to do? Tie you down?" Elffled laughed nervously. "I wish we had a cup to hold the water! Perhaps I should go back to the mill and try to find something."

"No, this will do." Elfhild smiled wanly, her face still pallid under the sunburnt skin. She was content to lie in the water, feeling its pleasant coolness refreshing her. Oh, how wonderful this was, just to lie here and lick the drops of water as they slid from her sister's fingertips and bask in the coolness of the liquid as Elffled splashed it over her shoulders, chest and stomach.

"Then if you are certain," Elffled replied as she brought another handful of water to her twin's lips and smiled anxiously down at her.

"Oh, 'Fled, I do not want you to leave me again." Elfhild closed her eyes and leaned back against the bank. As her mind cleared, she began to wonder what had happened, and how she had come to be in the pond. "How did you get me in the water?"

"I tugged and I tugged upon you until I finally dragged you into the shallow water. You are a lot heavier than you appear to be," Elffled chuckled impishly, moving her hand down to flick away a drop of dried mud on Elfhild's cheek. "You did not think I had the strength enough to do it, did you? You think you are the strong one," she smiled rather smugly, Elfhild thought.

"You do not have to convince me. I guess you can put your mind to doing whatever you want to do. I can sit up now, and do not try to stop me!" Bracing her hands against the bank, Elfhild pushed herself into a sitting position and looked down as the droplets of water rolled over her stomach and into the pond. She felt lightheaded and horribly weary, but she thought she could walk.

"You are looking so much better! But how do you feel?" Elffled reached a hand down and smoothed a muddy strand of hair away from Elfhild's face.

"Much better." Elfhild sighed deeply as she sank back into the water. "Just let me rest here a while, and then I must get out of here. I do not want anyone to see me naked."

"Who? Who would ever see you? Hild, do not be silly! There is no one here, unless it would be the fish!"

"Yes, yes, I know, how foolish of me." Elfhild felt a pleasant sensation of deep weariness sink over her, but she no longer felt dizzy or nauseated, and her head no longer felt as though hornets had built a hive inside her skull.

The sun had edged closer to the western horizon before Elfhild felt sufficiently recovered enough to leave the refreshing water. Night would be falling upon the land within another hour, and though the waters called to Elfhild with their soothing coolness, it would be folly to stay longer. Putting an arm around her sister's waist, Elffled helped her stumbling twin out of the water.

"Let me assist you in dressing," Elffled offered solicitously.

"No, please, 'Fled, not yet. I am too weary to struggle with my sweaty dress. Just drape my cloak about my shoulders, and I will be quite fine."

"Whatever you feel is best, sister." Elffled scooped up their things, and then with an arm about her waist, she guided the other girl towards the mill.

Nearing the front of the large three-story building of weathered planks, Elfhild gazed up at the rough exterior and smiled. "Elffled, what does this charming place have to offer in the way of lodgings?" she asked, a playful note in her voice as she attempted to lighten the mood, which she considered was far too doleful. "Since it appears that we are the only customers, surely there are rooms in abundance."

"Other than a dry place for the night, the mill has nothing to commend it. I have already explored the first floor, and I would assume the other floors would be much the same," Elffled returned glumly.

"I am not too picky now when it comes to shelter, sister, and since it seems to be the only thing available, I am happy to have it." Elfhild attempted a bright smile to disguise the wave of exhaustion that washed over her.

As she was about to open the door, Elffled saw something out of the corner of her eye which had escaped her notice before - a small cottage nestled far back among the trees to the south. She halted and squinted into the distance to get a better look.

"Why are we stopping?" Elfhild asked tremulously as she rested her head on her sister's shoulder.

"Look, Elfhild! Back there among the trees! A cottage!" Elffled exclaimed excitedly, then turned back to her sister. "You look so weary, dear sister. Sit here on this old, worn millstone by the door and rest whilst I dash to the house and explore it." Her eyes bright with excitement, she gave her sister a quick kiss on the cheek.

"What had we just decided?" Elfhild reminded her with a wan grin. "We promised not to become separated again. We shall go and explore the house together. I am not letting you out of my sight!"


	33. Chapter 32 - Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Elfhild

The twins spied a path leading away from the mill through a grove of trees to the south. After following the meandering way for a short distance, they came to the wood's edge. Keeping to the cover of the trees, they surveyed the land before them. There, just beyond where they stood, lay a flat, cleared section of ground with a single-story cottage and small barn. To the western side of the house was a barren garden bordered by a stone fence. The sisters could see a few pens for chickens and other small stock between the garden and the cottage. Behind the pens were several wicker bee skeps made from long straw woven with blackberry briars, but it had been many long days since the industrious bees had carried back the pollen which would keep the colony alive. Gazing over the whole scene, the sisters saw a stretch of meadowland bordered by distant trees beyond the cottage.

Even though the whole farmstead looked well-tended, there was no livestock in the field, and no chickens scratched the barren soil for worms and insects. The silence seemed overwhelming, and as Elfhild looked at her sister, her voice was low and hushed. "It is deserted! Now let us see if there is anything remaining in the cottage. Probably everything there has been pilfered by the orcs."

The sisters walked closer to the cottage, gathering up their courage to step inside. The cheerful paleness of the house's whitewashed sides was divided into large sections by the sturdy bent boles which composed its cruck frame. The thatched roof of weatherbeaten straw, sagged in the middle, but the sight of a bowing roof was so commonplace that the sisters paid scant attention to it.

In contrast to the woe-begotten doors in the village, which were either in a state of ruin or swinging wide open on their hinges, the sturdy door to the cottage was shut. Feeling a prickle of uncertainty trouble their minds, the girls ventured a cautious peek through one of the small, narrow windows along the front wall. Both expected to see nothing more than an empty house filled with rubble, the broken conglomeration of ruined lives and dreams. However, there before their surprised eyes was a large room which put them pleasantly in mind of their old home back in the Mark. At the sight, the two smiled at each other, and then boldly opened the door and entered the house. At last they had found a building which had been untouched by the orcs; perhaps here they could find supplies which would aid them on their journey.

There was the familiar brazier in the center of the floor, the fire pit surrounded by a square border of stones. The iron tripod, used for suspending a pot or kettle over the fire pit, had been moved away to the side. A large kettle, which Elfhild imagined as being filled with a savory stew that bubbled merrily as it released delicious aromas, had been placed on a stone nearby. Shelves holding wooden dishes, spoons, knives, and a collection of small earthenware jars and pots hung on the neat whitewashed walls. All seemed to be waiting for their absent owner to return.

At both ends of the pitched roof, the gables had been left open by the builders and served as small triangular vents to allow the smoke to escape. Covering about a third of the ceiling, an exposed loft had been built at one end of the house. From where the sisters stood, they could see a quantity of kegs and barrels arrayed along on its floor. To the sides of the whitewashed room, there were jars, containers, barrels and boxes, all those necessities that are so indispensable in the lives of peasants and small landholders.

To one side was a large oaken trestle table, light golden in color and well-polished, with two sturdy benches on either side. Two stools completed the furnishings of the simple but comfortable room. A door was set into the back wall, its covering an old blue blanket. To the right side of the door, there was a series of hooks for hanging clothes, pouches, and other necessary items. Everything in the spacious room was laid out in neat order, all arranged to be as convenient as a pocket on a shirt. As the sisters' eyes roved the chamber, they both felt a chill of fear race down their spines when they beheld, hanging neatly upon two of the hooks, a well-worn old gray hat, and beside it a patched brown, woolen cloak.

"Elfhild, I think we ought to leave," Elffled whispered, her voice rising in panic. "Perhaps you did not notice, but the furniture and everything in this cottage is as clean as a hound's tooth. There is not a single cobweb or a speck of dust upon any of it! Someone lives here! We must leave before he comes back!"

"He has left his hat and cloak. I suppose it must be a man anyway, but possibly it could be a woman. Surely the owner must plan to come back for them," Elfhild replied, trying to keep her voice calm as her eyes darted about the room. She expected to see the householder barge through the door at any time. She took a deep breath and tried to steady her wildly beating heart. "But we have come this far safely enough, and surely we could venture a look into the other room. Perhaps we could find a pair of shoes for you. I know how those you are wearing pain your feet. Who knows the other things here that we might steal?"

"Steal?" Elffled gasped. "Elfhild, are we reduced now to petty thievery?" Gritting her teeth, her words came out in a hiss as she waved her arms frantically about the room. "What about the owner? Will not he or she object? If this place were mine, I would be very severe upon anyone whom I found pilfering my house!"

"Oh, 'Fled," Elfhild sighed dramatically. "The honest, upright householders who once occupied this dwelling left months ago, fleeing for their very lives from the fierce barbarian invaders! Whoever has taken up residence in this house is probably a deserter from the army of the Dark Land. An unscrupulous fiend who would sell his own mother into slavery if he could get a few pieces of gold out of her!" Her eyes grew wide, her voice impassioned. "The scoundrel stole all of these things from the Anórians anyway, and he does not deserve to have the ill-gotten gains derived from his knavery!" She paused, licked her lips and then continued, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "When you take from the enemy, it is not considered stealing. It is called 'confiscating.'" As an afterthought, she added, "Besides, we will only take that which we need."

Elffled raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Did you learn that from listening to the orcs?"

"As a matter of fact, I learned it from the Easterlings." Her sparkling eyes lowering, Elfhild smiled sweetly, her dulcet voice filled with mischief. "Once on the journey east, I happened to be near to two of the Khandian cavalrymen and overheard them boasting about their exploits to some of the women."

"The Khandians!" Elffled exclaimed, horrified. "Hild, you are becoming corrupted!"

"At least I am not the one who wants to hear their warbling moans when they try to sing!"

"Oh, all right, Hild," Elffled returned sarcastically, "we will both become petty felons, engaging in a life of crime, and think no more of it! Then, if we become really accomplished at thievery, we can become pickpockets or outlaws in the Mark! Perhaps you see yourself as some romantic heroine who calls herself the 'Queen of the Outlaws.' I can just see some of your daring exploits!"

"Oh, nothing like that," Elfhild giggled. "We will just take enough to survive, and no more. Now let us look inside this room."

"I still do not like it," Elffled pouted, her lower lip protruding.

Walking over to the door, the two paused before it and drew back the blanket. The barrier loomed over them like a large wooden monolith, its large dark boards imposing. The sisters looked at each other. Elfhild swallowed, the saliva slowly sliding down her throat. Oh, this was ridiculous. It was not like they were stealing treasures from beneath the belly of a sleeping dragon. Taking a deep breath, she clasped the wooden door handle and jerked open the door.

"You first, Elfhild. You are the brave one!" Her sister's voice was edged with uncertainty. "I will be right behind you." She gave her sister's back a little shove.

"Oh, you are such a coward!" Elfhild grumbled as she rolled her eyes and then flounced through the doorway. She discovered that all her fears had been for naught. In fact, she was overjoyed by what she saw - a large bed illuminated in the dying light from the open window. Spread over a light quilt of dark blue was a magnificent covering of glossy gray fox furs sewn together. A pillow, inviting in its thickness, lay below the headboard. To Elfhild's eyes, it was the most marvelous bed she had ever seen in her life, but at this point, any bed would seem marvelous. As she gazed rapturously at its comfortable expanse, a wave of exhaustion swept over her. She wanted nothing more than to sink into its softness and give herself over to sweet slumber. Lifting a shaky hand to her forehead, she struggled to fight the sudden bout of lethargy.

"Elfhild," her twin asked in alarm, "are you well?"

She had almost forgotten about her sister, who was standing right behind her. "Yes, yes," she murmured distractedly, "just a little weakness."

"Elfhild?" Her sister lay a reassuring hand upon her shoulder. "Perhaps you should lie down a while; you are still weak from the sun sickness."

"No... no... I do not want to lie down. We must be leaving here soon. The owner might return. I am fine, just a little dizzy spell," Elfhild muttered as she sank down onto the welcoming softness of the bed. "It will pass. Just let me sit a while." She was glad for the touch of her sister's hand. That warm, comforting presence on her shoulder was like a stone weight which held down a thatched roof in windy weather; it held her down to earth and kept her from floating back into the lassitude of the sun sickness.

"Oh, Hilde, I have been so worried about you!" Elffled's voice was soft and filled with concern as she squeezed her sister's hand. "Ever since I found you sleepwalking this morning, you have seemed so unlike yourself. Then when you fell ill this afternoon and fainted dead away, I was so frightened!" Elffled paused, a wry smile flickering over her lips. "And all this time you were worried about your nightmare coming true. It seems the sun has done you far more damage!"

At the mention of the dream, Elfhild felt the color draining from her cheeks as cold dread slammed into her senses, leaving her shivering despite the warm stuffiness of the cottage. "Oh, Elffled, why did you have to mention that horrible nightmare? Once again I feel his powerful arms around me, the blade held poised above my heart..." She grasped Elffled's hand desperately as she relived the terrifying dream. "Please reassure me once again that there was no conjurer, no stranger, no man of the enemy who accosted us last evening!"

"Oh, dearest sister, I did not mean to bring you painful memories!" Elffled smiled reassuringly and brushed her sister's still-damp hair from the sides of her face. "Last night, we both had a dream in which we met a strange man in the forest, but yours ended in terror while mine ended in a magnificent palace. It was just a dream, though, for if it had been real, I would be strolling through a lovely garden right now and picking a bouquet of beautiful flowers instead of pilfering a stranger's house." She chuckled wryly. "I certainly wish my version of the dream had come true!"

"Still it seems strange that our minds could come up with two very different versions of the same dream." Elfhild frowned thoughtfully. "It - it seemed so very real to me. I can still feel the sting of the silvery blade as it raked across my chest." Closing her eyes, she shivered and drew closer to her sister.

"Weary, troubled minds sometimes imagine the direst of calamities, and in their distress think they are real," Elffled patiently explained. "I will admit that meeting the stranger in the forest was frightening, but when he kissed me, my fears melted into pleasure. I guess your mind interpreted the dream differently, and that is why it became a nightmare to you." She shrugged. "Sometimes two people can see the same thing differently."

"Oh, Elffled, you make this whole bizarre incident seem so very logical and mundane." Closing her eyes, Elfhild sighed in relief. The brief rest had done her a great deal of good, and she felt much better. Yet now she was beginning to feel mortified at the thought of her silly fears. Across her cheeks spread a flaming blush, and she wished she could melt like a puddle into the bed and be absorbed by the sheets. "I feel so very foolish now."

"You should not feel that way," Elffled reassured her gently. "I think all of us are the victims of strange thoughts, ideas or dreams from time to time." She was glad that her sister was beginning to see reason. She had feared that all of their combined woes had finally been too much for her sister, and Elfhild's brain had snapped in two like a dry, brittle twig.

"You are right, 'Fled. It was all only a very bad dream." Elfhild sighed. How could she have ever believed that her nightmare had really happened? The whole idea seemed absurd, and she was embarrassed to have ever imagined such a ridiculous thing. Now on the brink of womanhood, she should set aside her childish fears of ghosts and spirits, and relegate them to the world of fantasy where they belonged.

Shaking her head to clear her mind of these thoughts, Elfhild put on her best determined, tenacious expression. "Now I have rested long enough, and we need to return to our labors," she proclaimed resolutely as she sat up in the bed. "I will investigate the cupboard while you search through the trunks."

To the other side of the room were two chests, a stool, and a lovely, well-crafted oaken aumbrey. Eager to be away before the occupant of the house returned and just as eager to see what was inside the aumbrey, Elfhild hopped off the bed and quickly moved to the beautiful cabinet. She knew that householders often kept valuables stored away in these cabinets, and who knew what useful items she might discover inside? Perhaps - and she found herself trembling to think of it, for the thought had come upon her totally unexpected - there might be gold! Though she had never seen any of the priceless metal, she had heard enough about it to be able to recognize its shiny golden lustre. Perhaps on the journey to their northern homeland, they might meet some traveling peddler and could trade the precious metal for food. Intrigued, she tested the iron latch, and when it resisted her, she grew frustrated and angry. Pulling frantically on the latch, she tried to to shake the unyielding aumbrey door open.

"Damn it, it is locked!" Elfhild wailed, resisting the childish urge to kick the leg of the cabinet.

"Still determined to be a robber?" Grinning mischievously, Elffled looked up from the contents of the trunk which she had been searching. Her fears about her sister's unusual behavior had been almost completely assuaged. Whatever had been troubling Elfhild seemed to have passed, and she hoped that her sister had just been out of sorts because of her bad dreams and her recent sickness.

Flustered and feeling guilty at her greedy thoughts of gold, Elfhild sputtered, "I thought there might be weapons inside, and you have to admit, weapons could stand us in good stead!"

"Perhaps you are indeed turning into a brigand. I thought you were going to kick in the door! As degenerate as you are becoming, dear sister, I wondered if perhaps you might be looking for gold, jewelry, necklaces, brooches, rings, and other treasures," Elffled teased, arriving a little too close to the truth for Elfhild's comfort.

"What if I were looking for gold?" Elfhild snapped defensively. Vexed at her sister, she looked around for something to throw. Spying a shoe near the aumbrey, she reached down and angrily hurled it at Elffled.

Ducking aside just in time, her twin chortled, "You could not hit the privy house door at three paces! You need to practice more so that you can at least hit something." Grinning, she picked up the shoe that her sister had thrown at her and studied it. "Hmmmm... A little too large for me."

"Elffled, stop teasing me!" Elfhild frowned, enraged to the point of tears. Lifting up her foot, she kicked the aumbrey savagely and felt the shock of the impact shooting up her leg. "Oh!" she exclaimed, wincing as she hopped on one foot. "That hurt!"

"What do you expect when you kick something that is just as hard as your skull?" Elffled snickered. "I am finished with this trunk and, Hild, you will be disappointed. I found nothing in it except some bedding and old clothing."

"I give up on the aumbrey anyway." Angrily pushing back the wayward lock of hair which had strayed over her eye, Elfhild limped across the floor to Elffled. Bending down, she elbowed her sister aside and rummaged among the neatly folded garments in the trunk.

Elffled shot her sister a questioning look. "Hild, I already told you that there was nothing in this trunk but old clothing and bedding."

"Old clothing?" Elfhild asked incredulously. "While these might not be the finest of garments, they are far better than what we are wearing! Look, sister, there are some lads' clothing which look as though they could fit us. Let us exchange our threadbare dresses for these!" Quickly upon her feet, Elfhild tossed her cloak on the bed. Soon the voluptuous ivory curves of her budding young body were hidden beneath a tunic and breeches.

"Elfhild," her sister giggled, "no one will ever believe you are a lad!"

"I am not trying to make anyone think that I am! Now change your clothing and let us explore the other trunk."

A search of the second trunk revealed that there were only a few items inside and nothing which would be of use to them. Picking up a bundle wrapped in thin linen, they found a woman's dress the color of dark wine. Wrapped up in other sheets of linen were a small miniature of a pale, rather austere looking young woman with large, wistful dark eyes and glossy blue-black hair, along with a few infant's garments, which were yellowed from age.

Elffled picked up the portrait and gazed down at it pensively. "I have never seen a painted likeness before. I wonder who she was."

"Probably the lady of the house, but there is no way we will ever know." Disappointed that they had found no weapons or gold, Elfhild was in no mood for sentimentality.

"She was beautiful," Elffled murmured as she looked away from the portrait and to her sister. "Surely we are not going to take her dress!" Her expression and voice indicated that she thought the idea was an abhorrent one, far beneath what any decent person would do.

"'Fled, certainly not!" Elfhild exclaimed, aghast. "That would be like robbing the dead! Now we must put everything back where we found it in this trunk. After that, we will take all of the clothing and anything else we find of use in the other trunk and wrap it up in sheets. Whoever lives here has plenty of bedding and should not even miss what we take. Now we need to hurry! We have been here too long already!"

"Hild, as robbers, we will never be a success; we are far too soft-hearted to be rogues," Elffled grinned ruefully. Then walking over to the other trunk with the boys' clothing, she wrapped a patched cloak, several faded tunics and pairs of breeches, an old belt, and some well-patched sheets and blankets and tied the whole lot up in a sheet. She thought of taking the pair of shoes that her sister had thrown at her, but besides having an odious smell about them, they were far too long and narrow for her feet.

"Aye, though it seems that we were doomed to be the most inept of robbers, still let us congratulate ourselves on having some small success on our first venture. We might grow better at this with more practice," Elfhild chuckled.

"If we are going to make a trade out of this, I think we should stick to breaking and entering. It is far safer than highway robbery," Elffled commented wryly.

Elfhild smiled at her sister as she gathered up two blankets and a sheet in her arms. "Hurry so we can get back to the other room and search there. Do not forget," she added as an afterthought, "to look around and see if you can find a tinderbox."

"We have sunk quite low to considering stealing old shoes! Oh, sister," Elffled giggled, "I think I might take to this life of crime. After pilfering old clothing and bedding, who knows! We might become famous chicken thieves someday!"

Elfhild wrinkled her nose. "Chicken thieves! Oh, 'Fled, do not be so silly! Robbery is nothing to jest about, and we would never be doing it if we were not driven to it by our desperate plight."

The two girls stared at each other, and then they dissolved into peals of mirth at the absurdity of the situation. "Robber!" Elffled giggled. "Chicken thief!" Elfhild shoved her sister playfully. Waves of laughter rolled over them, washing away all of the stress and tension that had grown between them, like dirt is driven before the rain.

By the time they came to the door which led to the main chamber, their sides were aching from the strain of their laughter and tears streaked their cheeks. Another spasm of hilarity rolled over them as they walked through the doorway. Halting to catch her breath, Elffled brought a hand to her eyes to chase away the tears.

"Brigand, you!" Elfhild laughed, the grin on her face so big that her eyes were almost squeezed shut. She was on the verge of giving her sister another teasing jab in the ribs when her laughter froze in her throat, her merriment coming to an abrupt end.

To their horror, the twins heard a menacing, deep-throated growl outside the cottage, and then the door slowly swung open.


	34. Chapter 33 - Supper With Tarlanc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

With a gasp, Elfhild dropped the bundle of old clothes. She stared at the door, her heart hammering so frantically that she was sure it would leap out of her chest. Seizing her sister's arm in a death grip, she screamed at the top of her lungs. Once again, she felt the effects of the sun sickness coming over her. A wave of dizziness clouded her mind and her hold onto her sister's arm loosened. Close to swooning, she staggered, lurching into Elffled's side and almost sending her toppling to the floor.

Casting a desperate glance at the door, Elffled tottered as she struggled to regain her equilibrium. She must not let Elfhild fall! Finally regaining her footing, Elffled frantically shot an arm around Elfhild's waist to shore up her staggering sister. Her eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for a way to escape, but the only doorway was blocked. They were trapped!

As the panicked sisters gaped in horror, the monster gave another fierce growl and crouched low to the floor. Its powerful muscles tensing, its huge body coiling like a spring, the great beast growled viciously and readied itself to unleash a savage attack. Never had they seen such a creature in their lives! Covered with sagging, wrinkled skin, the sooty gray brute must have been half lion, half gargoyle and another part demon.

Great folds of loose skin almost obscured its piercing dark eyes and continued beneath its chin, sagging down its neck in enormous rolls which almost reached its knees. Hideous beyond belief, the creature must have been a denizen of Melkor's abode in ancient days. In its excitement, the fiend panted rapidly, its ravening maw gaping open wide, its fetid breath coming in great huffs. Torrents of drool hung in glistening strands from its mouth and dripped to the floor in foamy puddles. With sinking hearts, both sisters realized that the gargantuan grotesque could quickly knock them to the floor and rip out their throats in an instant.

Her eyes wide with terror, Elfhild shrank back as another scream tore from her throat. Her mind could bear no more, and a great wave of blackness mercifully enfolded her. Slowly she slumped to the ground, fainting dead away.

For a brief instant, Elffled glanced down to the prone form of her sister and then her gaze shifted back to the door. With a deep, sighing shudder, she squeezed her eyes shut and prepared herself for death.

"Sir!" a calm masculine voice commanded the attention of the ferocious monstrosity which crouched at his feet, every quivering muscle poised to spring. "We will mind our manners! Down! Do you hear me? Down, I say!" he added for emphasis.

Turning devoted eyes up to gaze at the speaker, the brute sank obediently to the floor. There he lay, cringing and whimpering, occasionally looking up at the man. Too afraid to open her eyes, Elffled kept them tightly closed until curiosity prevailed. Then peeking cautiously from beneath her long eyelashes, she regarded the speaker and his thrall with trepidation.

"Open your eyes, girl, and look at me!" the man demanded. "Haun here and I mean you no harm."

Elffled looked fearfully at the man, who was smiling kindly at her from dark gray eyes set beneath bushy white eyebrows. The man's wide, full mouth smiled between the mustache and long white beard, causing the spidery wrinkles around his eyes to shift and crinkle. Tall and thin, the man wore a long brown tunic which reached his knees, cross-gartered tan breeches, and sturdy leather shoes. Taking off his cap, he hung it on a peg by the door. Elffled could see that, although he had long, wispy hair which fell past his shoulders, the top of his head was bald as the barren crest of a snow-covered mountain.

"Up, sir," came a firm word from his master, and the creature stood beside him, looking up at him and awaiting his next command. "Are you not ashamed of yourself? You know that you have given our guests a great fright."

Sensing that the man did not plan to hurt her, at least for the immediate future, Elffled summoned up the courage to speak. "W-who are you, sir?" she stammered.

"The owner of this house," the man stated dryly, wrinkling his long, narrow nose. Before Elffled realized what he was about to do, he had stalked forward, kneeling down and lifting Elfhild up in his arms.

"What are you going to do to us?" Elffled asked tremulously, her twitching fingers clutching at her heart.

"Why, first I am going to remove this young lady from my floor and put her to bed where she belongs! What did you think I was going to do?" The man seemed to regard her question as a foolish, impudent one, for his shaggy eyebrows shot up as he pierced her with a stern, disapproving stare. Embarrassed, Elffled could not meet his gaze and dropped hers, looking down through long eyelashes at her feet. Muttering to himself, the old man carried Elfhild to the bedroom and placed her gently upon the bed. The huge mastiff followed behind him, wagging his long tail and dribbling drops of drool with each step of his massive paws.

"Why are you standing in there, lass? Come along now!" he called back over his shoulder to Elffled.

At the sound of his voice, Elffled started and decided she should obey him. Quickly making her way to the doorway, she felt a shudder of fear strike her as she saw him bending down over the prone form of her sister. The strange old man peered intently into her sister's face. "W-what are you doing?" she asked as she clutched the door frame and peeked into the room, her body molding to the wood. The mastiff turned his head around and stared at her, a low, ominous growl rumbling in his throat.

"Sir!" the man scolded sharply. "What did I tell you about that?" Embarrassed at the rebuke, the animal lowered his great wrinkled head, his expressive dark eyes reflecting abashment, his short ears going back as he wagged his tail apologetically. The man turned his attention back to Elffled. "You do not listen very well, do you? I already told you what I am about. However, since you seem not to have wit enough to understand a clear statement, I will elaborate, and then perhaps you will understand. I am attempting to determine if this pathetic creature is on the verge of dying, or has merely fainted."

"Dying?" Elffled squeaked, her face turning pale. Even though Elffled was terrified of the old man, she was far more afraid that her sister might be deathly ill. Racing across the room, she stopped beside the old man. Anxiously, she looked down at her sister's pallid face and grasped the hem of her tunic in her hands, compulsively twisting and untwisting the cloth. "Oh, sir, she is not in good health!" She looked imploringly at the old man, her voice trembling in her distress. "This afternoon, she was overcome by heat and lack of water and fainted dead away! For a long while, I feared that I would not be able to revive her, and she would never wake up!" Glancing down at her sister, Elffled buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

"Now, young lady, cease that infernal caterwauling and be still before you prove to be the undoing of your sister! She could be dying," he returned churlishly. "I am no healer, mind you, never pretended to be." He raised his bony shoulders up in a shrug and then let them sag limply. "Almost all of what I know of doctoring has been gleaned from studying animal husbandry." Turning in Elffled's direction, he raised his bushy eyebrows and fixed her with a probing stare. Intimidated, Elffled shrank away.

"I have almost arrived at a conclusion, though; you can be sure of that. From what I can ascertain about her state of health," here the old man paused for effect, "she looks like she might live another sixty or seventy years, but only if she turns from her life of crime." No emotion showing on his face, he waited until the full meaning of what he had said slowly dawned on Elffled. Then he laughed, the sudden, unrestrained sound leaving the confused girl even more bewildered.

"Oh, my! Lass, you should have seen the expression on your face!" he managed to gasp out between great bursts of laughter. "A man would have thought you had just fallen head over heels into the hog lot while slopping the pigs!" His thin body quivering, he sobbed with laughter as he reached for the bedpost with both hands and held onto it for support. "Oh, lass! There has been such a woeful dearth of laughter in this sad land for so long, and you can imagine how good it feels to have something to laugh about again. I had been looking for an excuse for a long time but had never found one until now. Not surprising... I do not talk to many, except old Haun. Everyone thinks I am insane anyway." Squinting at Elffled through copious tears, he clutched the post for some moments as Elffled stared at him incredulously. She could not believe that anyone could find the situation so amusing, and she was left feeling disturbed.

Still wiping the moisture from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, the old gentleman seemed to have regained his composure. He drew a great, shuddering breath and wheezed as he coughed up some spittle that had gone to his lungs. Chuckling to himself, he ambled away from the bed to stand in the middle of the floor. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at Elffled. "You have been entirely too quick and ready with your questions for me, but it is time I ask you some. Now, young lady, suppose you tell me just what the two of you were doing in my house."

"Well, sir," Elffled swallowed hard as she rose to her feet, "we - we were - were--"

"Thieving! That was what you were doing!" came his smug interjection. "Do not try to deny it! With the shambles you have made of my house, the evidence of your perfidy is as plain as day! Rifling an honest man's home! For shame, shame upon you!" He shook a long, thin finger at her.

Elffled gulped and looked down at the floor, her cheeks flaming red. "Sir, I can explain--"

"I am sure you can, but your explanation will have to wait until later." The old fellow had already turned away from her, apparently having no more interest in the conversation. "My day has been long and vexing enough as it is. Now I need a cup of tea, and a bite of supper. Come, Haun; we will leave them alone to think upon their crimes." He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and the great dog was instantly up and at his side. Shrinking back as they walked past her, Elffled flung herself against the bed as soon as they had gone into the other room.

Elffled was terrified of this cantankerous old man and his huge, ill-tempered dog. When the elderly gentleman had raised his voice and scowled at her, she had feared that she would crumble and burst into tears. Still, as she felt her face burning in shame, she knew that the man's words were true. They had no right to sneak into his house and raid it, as though they were common criminals, or worse still, orcs. She slumped down on the bed beside Elfhild. After lightly tapping her knuckles on her unconscious sister's cheek and getting no response, she bent down and kissed her forehead. Above the sooty hollows beneath her eyes, Elfhild's long eyelashes fluttered open.

"The monster! The monster!" Elfhild gasped as she sat up quickly and glanced fearfully about the room. Her body reeling at the shock of the sudden movement, she fell back onto the bed with a gasp, blinking as the room lurched from one side to the other. Raising her hand to her brow, she shook her head to clear the uneasy sensation. "Oh, Elffled! Did I really see that thing? Or was it all another dreadful dream?"

"No, dear sister," Elffled sighed as she took her hand, stroking the top with her thumb, "I am afraid this time it was all too real."

"Where is the beast?" Elfhild struggled to sit up again, but slower this time. "It was a warg! I feared that we would see them again sometime, but I never dreamed that we would encounter those monsters this soon!"

"Oh, no," Elffled smiled gently, "I think the beast is a dog, but a strange kind, and a very fearsome one! I have never seen its like before!"

The twins turned their heads quickly to stare at the old man, who had just stuck his head inside the room. "The tea is ready, and a cold supper," came the gravelly voice. "If you want anything to eat, I advise you to come into the main room now, or I will give your share to Haun." He scowled at them both and then walked back into the other room.

"Who is that?" Elfhild yelped as she grabbed her sister's forearm.

"I do not know," Elffled whispered. "He said he was the owner of the house."

"By Helm's horn! He will flay us alive!" Her eyes wide with fear, Elfhild trembled as she clenched her sister's arm, shaking it in her desperation. "'Fled, 'Fled, what are we to do? He and that horrible monstrous hound of his are between us and the door to the outside!"

"We could go out the window," Elffled considered, putting her finger to her lip as she weighed the possibility.

"Let us give it a try! The window is our only hope!" Elfhild exclaimed as she stumbled to the window.

Elfhild's feet had just touched the ground outside when Elffled raised her leg in preparation to climb over the sill. Elfhild was reaching through the window to give her younger sister a hand when she saw Elffled's head twist around to gaze in horror at something behind her. Suddenly the girls heard a fierce growl which halted them in their tracks. Haun, his hackles bristling, stood at the doorway, his dark eyes gleaming from between the wrinkled rolls of skin around his eyes.

"Your tea is getting cold," the old man called from the other room.

"Hurry up, Elffled! We can still make it!" Elfhild hissed as she tugged on her sister's arm.

Grimacing, Elffled turned back to her twin and pointed frantically down towards the floor of the cottage. "Hild, my breeches are stuck on a nail, and I cannot move! Besides that, the dog is sniffing my shoe!"

The old man had become suspicious when the girls failed to join him in the main room. Creeping across the floor on tiptoe, he had sneaked to the doorway and peered inside the bedroom. "Girl, what are you doing in that window? Trying to run away, are you? I will have none of that! Now get out of there and tell the other girl to come back, or I will open the door and turn my dog loose on her!"

"Yes, sir," Elffled peeped as she finally untangled her breeches from the nail which held her and hesitantly walked towards the old man.

"Tell him I am coming," Elfhild growled as she heaved herself back through the window.

Later seated around the table with cups of steaming hot tea and plates of bread and cold boiled meat before them, the sisters smiled sheepishly at the old man. Their abashment did not last long, however, for the food was too tempting for their famished stomachs to resist. While never for a moment did they forget their ladylike manners, still the twins took far larger portions and ate much more quickly than they ever would have dared at home with their mother watching them.

After watching them silently for a few minutes, the old man suddenly stabbed a piece of meat towards the twins' faces. "You are escaped slaves, are you not?" After brandishing the slab at them, he brought the meat to his mouth, vigorously chewing the morsel as he stared at them. "Do not try to lie to me," he growled between mouthfuls of beef and bread. "I might be up in years, but I am not yet a doddering old fool! I can see the collars on your necks as plain as day, and I can even read your names." He pointed a bony finger first to one girl and then to the other. "You are Elfhild, and the other girl is Elffled. Obviously from your looks, you are sisters, identical twins." He cackled triumphantly. "Not only that," he squinted as he deciphered their tags from a distance, "but your collars say that you belong to the Dark Enemy, and you are to be returned to Esarhaddon uHuzziya if you escape!"

The old man's revelation took Elfhild by surprise. Her cheeks stuffed like a squirrel, her eyes bulged as she swallowed the large mouthful in one gulp. Coughing, she grabbed her cup of tea and took a great swallow. The hot liquid burnt her throat, and she gasped, whimpering in pain and squirming in her seat as she fanned her open mouth. Elfhild had been dreading this moment ever since the old gentleman had discovered them in his cottage. At first, she had hoped that age had dimmed his eyesight to the point that he would not notice their collars. Surprisingly, she had found out that the old man's vision was remarkably clear in spite of his stooped shoulders and white hair.

"Here, drink this. It will cool you down," he ordered in a half-amused voice as he poured a cup of water from an earthenware pitcher and slid it across the table. "I know that I took you both by surprise, but I should suppose that you would have had the wits to think of some way to disguise those collars about your necks." Shaking his head, he lifted his hands heavenward, as though in supplication, and then let them fall back down to his thighs, where they landed with a smack. "Pull the necks of your tunics up, tie a scarf around your necks, something!"

"Sir," Elffled looked at him with wide, frightened eyes, "are you going to give us over to the slavers?"

The old man reached a gnarled hand into a platter on the table and tore off a piece of bread. Elffled noticed that his wrinkled skin was almost translucent with age. "You must hold a low opinion of me," his gruff voice was accusing. "If you think I would do anything so despicable as turning you over to those damn slavers, you do not know old Tarlanc! And that, young ladies - even though we have not been politely introduced - is my name! Tarlanc of Anórien, man of Gondor at your service." He inclined his head towards them.

"You mean you will not turn us over to them?" Elffled asked in astonishment. "But I thought you were - you were," she glanced at her sister as she groped for words, "one of the invaders."

"What?" Tarlanc thundered as he pushed the bench back and rose to his feet. Outraged, his face a livid crimson, his eyes flicked down towards the mastiff, who had been sleeping peacefully. "Haun, did you hear that?" At his sharp words, the dog looked up attentively, alert for the order to attack. "I should take umbrage at those remarks, young lady, but since you are only an ignorant girl of Rohan, I suppose that you would know no better!"

Attuned to his master's emotions, Haun heard the anger in his voice and was quickly on his feet, his teeth barred in a fierce growl. "Haun, sir!" the old man's sharp voice stung the animal's sensitive ears like the lash of a quirt. "If I require your assistance, I will ask you for it! Now down, sir!" With a heavy sigh, Haun dropped to his belly and lay his head between his paws.

Elffled waited until the man was finished disciplining his dog before she spoke. "Oh, I am so sorry," she apologized. "We meant no offense!"

"But, really, sir, what would you expect us to think?" Elfhild interrupted, her voice defensive. "Who else except an enemy would still be living here after the invasion?" She tilted her chin up in defiance.

"I am an honorable man, my lass," he huffed from the other side of the table, "a miller by occupation. My family has held the lease to this mill and the surrounding lands from the lords of Pelladen - which is the name of this province of Anórien - for many years. The leasehold goes all the way back to my great-great-grandsire. No one idly insults the millers of Pelladen!"

The long search for water, the depressing village, Elfhild's heat sickness, and now this abrasive old man who wrangled continuously, snapping at the slightest thing - all of this was too much for Elffled. Bursting out into tears, she sobbed wretchedly. "I am sorry!" she wailed between choking gasps. "If you do not want us here, we will be on our way! I only implore you not to tell anyone that we were here!"

At her tears, the old man's expression softened. "There, there, do not cry," he murmured kindly. "Finish your meal in peace. Now Haun and I must leave you to attend to a call of nature." Turning on his heel, the old man strolled out the back door, his great brute of a dog following sedately behind him.

"Oh, Elfhild, what are we going to do?" Elffled cried, slumping over on the table, her brow resting on her forearm.

"If you are wise, sister, you will eat all that you can hold, and thank the old gentleman for it. We must bide our time, and when we find the opportunity, we will escape," Elfhild replied resolutely before taking a drink of her now cool tea.

When Tarlanc returned, he began to boil water for more tea. The dog sauntered over and lay under the table, his breath gusting out in great heaves as he panted. When the water was ready, Tarlanc prepared the tea and took the sisters two cups of the warm brew. "You are afraid of Haun, are you not?" His shaggy eyebrows lowered over his eyes.

"You could say that, sir," Elfhild gave a slight nervous titter.

"You have nothing to fear. Haun is well-trained and devoted to me. Though you might think him a brutish animal, the old fellow is as gentle as a babe... unless someone would try to do me an injury." Chuckling, Tarlanc hunched forward over the table.

Elffled looked at him hopefully. "Oh, sir, I feel much better knowing that. I was extremely frightened of him, for he appeared so terrifying." Her long eyelashes fluttering, she flashed the old man a brilliant smile. "Please, sir, do not think us ungrateful for your hospitality. You have been wondrously kind. And the food! Your bread tasted almost as delicious as my mother's, and she was the best cook I ever knew." She brought a graceful hand to rub over her stomach. "We had not eaten much in two days, and it was the most divine meal that we have had in months."

"Well then, young lady," Tarlanc fixed her with an appraising stare, "you can help repay my generosity by cleaning up the table and washing the dishes. As soon as I heat some more water, you can get right to work. The tub for washing dishes is hanging on the back of the house, and the lye soap and cleaning rags are right over there." He motioned towards a shelf on the other side of the room. Then, bending his head down, he raised his eyes up to look expectantly at them from under his white, shaggy eyebrows. "Should you want to sweep the floor as well, you will find the broom over in that corner. Now, just go about your work and do not mind me while I sit down and rest a while. I feel a bit weary."

"Certainly, sir," Elfhild offered politely, not missing the satisfied smirk on the old miller's face.

"After our labors are done for the evening, one of you can brew some more tea, and then we will have ourselves a little chat." He sighed as he sank down on the bench with a heavy thud.


	35. Chapter 34 - Daughters of My Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

After the dishes had been washed and the table cleaned, old Tarlanc stirred up the fire in the brazier. The firelight spread a ruddy glow throughout the room, save in the dark corners where gloomy shadows lurked and sulked balefully. He lit a candle, setting it in the middle of the table, and then returned to the brazier, where he soon had another kettle of water boiling. With a grunt, the old man took his place across the table from the girls, and lighting a long splinter of wood from the candle, he touched it to his pipe. A few rapid tugs on the stem, and he was puffing one ring of smoke after another from the bowl. Haun settled his great bulk under the table, wiggled his back against his master's feet, and was soon snoring loudly.

"Westman's weed - a vice, but an enjoyable one," Tarlanc remarked dryly. Taking a deep breath, he drew in another mouthful of smoke. With a satisfied expression on his face, he expelled it in a cloud of blue haze which caught in an air current that swept down from the gables. Elffled gazed at the smoke as it was flipped over the old man's shoulder until at last it curled upward towards the ceiling. "Now for that little talk," he chuckled.

As the light cast shadows over the angular planes of the old man's face, he appeared almost brooding and sinister. The sisters slid a little closer together, finding comfort in the closeness of each other's warm body. Elffled was the first to speak, her voice a little tremulous as she forced herself to look old Tarlanc squarely in the eyes.

"What kind of talk?" she asked hesitantly.

"You two are in quite a bit of trouble." From beneath his shaggy eyebrows, his piercing deep-set dark gray eyes searched their gentle ones. "There must be a handsome reward on your heads. Anybody who delivers you to your masters will find his purse considerably enriched with a good bit of gold."

Barely daring to breathe, the sisters gaped in astonishment at the old man. So that was his game! He was going to hold them here for the night, and then in the morning, he would turn them over to the slavers, collect his reward and be on his way. Though he had boasted that he was a man of the West, sometime in his long life, his heart must have turned evil.

"Perhaps I should be that man! Poor as I am, I could certainly use some coin!"

Elfhild's eyes flashed angrily, and her hands, which were resting upon her lap, clenched into fists. "Sir, you would not dare! What kind of base-hearted scoundrel are you, who would betray two girls who are only trying to go back to their home?"

"Oh, sir," Elffled murmured woefully, her eyes becoming dewy with tears, "surely you could not be so hard-hearted!" While the idea of living her life as the wife of a rich and handsome Southern man was appealing to her more all the time - provided it was not the boorish Sergeant Daungha or any other uncivilized brute - she was terrified by the thoughts that Tarlanc might turn them over to the dreaded orcs.

"Little girl," Tarlanc pointed his pipe stem at Elfhild, "what I dare is none of your concern, and in my long years, I have dared many things!"

This was too much for Elffled, and the tears which she had been trying to hold back burst forth like a flood. "Oh, please, sir," she exclaimed, sobbing, "if you must turn us in, deliver us to the Haradrim, for they will show us more mercy than the cruel orcs!"

"Elffled!" Elfhild gasped, shocked at her sister's audacity. She stomped on her sister's foot under the table to silence her. "We do not wish to be recaptured at all, either by the Haradrim or the orcs!"

"My foot!" Elffled grimaced at the sudden pain and reached down to rub her injured foot. "You could have broken it!" She turned accusing eyes at her sister.

"After the way that the two of you ransacked my home and stole my property, I should turn you both in and receive some restitution for the damage you have done me! And you," the crusty old man turned the pipe stem towards Elffled and shook it at her menacingly, "you best never attempt your cloying feminine wiles upon old Tarlanc! I know your kind! I know them all too well! They think if they smile and flirt, they can get a man under their thumbs! Make him do whatever they want! Not old Tarlanc! Not for an instant!" Haun, who had been asleep under the table, suddenly yelped in his sleep as he dreamed of chasing hares through the meadow near the cottage.

"How dare you insult my sister!" Elfhild cried angrily.

Sliding the pipe back into his mouth, Tarlanc puffed on it rapidly, sending great trails of smoke to blow haphazardly as the downdraft caught them. His brow furrowed, casting the deep set caverns of his eyes into even more shadow. He stared at them intently until they both felt uncomfortable. "Your sister's honor! Neither of you have any! You are both thieves and scoundrels to break into a poor old man's cottage and attempt to rob him blind! I do not want to hear a single word out of either of you." Out came the pipe from his fleshy lips, and he pointed the stem back and forth between the two girls. "I am doing the talking here, and no flippant little girls are going to interrupt me!"

Elffled looked down meekly. Though Elfhild kept a tight hold upon her tongue, still she continued to glare at the old man. Straightening up his back until it was rigid as an iron pole, Tarlanc took a deep breath and prepared to continue his lecture. "You uppity little fools! One of you begs me to turn her over to the Haradrim, while the other, just as silly, tells me that I have insulted her sister's honor! One thing that neither of you seems to understand is that you will not dictate to old Tarlanc!" He brought his fist down so hard on the table that the candle holder bounced, the flame flickering wildly. "You will not tell me what to do! I will tell you what to do!"

Elffled tried to sink down on the bench and make herself appear as small as possible. This crabby old man was terrifying her, causing her to tremble. She wondered if he was a madman. At any moment, he might reach across the table and grab one of them and throttle her right there on his table. Elfhild though, was determined to face him bravely.

"You do not have to be so sour about it!" she told him, her head held high. "We know we were wrong in taking your property, but in all honesty, sir, we thought that this house was occupied by one of the enemy, a deserter, perhaps. Our clothing is in tatters and we barely have enough food for another day. We just needed a few supplies for our journey." Her blue eyes unwavering as she stared at him, she thought that she caught a look of grudging appreciation in his eyes.

Taking another puff from his pipe, Tarlanc clenched the stem in his large yellow teeth as he lifted up the kettle and refilled their three cups. "Here, you need some more tea. That is the last of it, and if you want any more, I will have to brew it." Smiling politely, Elfhild expressed her thanks for both of them, explaining that perhaps they might want more later, and then waited for him to resume his harangue. "You think I am a pompous old fool, do you not, and maybe you are right, but I know a good deal more about life than either of you do."

"I am sure you do, sir," Elfhild agreed as she took her sister's hand in her own and squeezed it reassuringly. Elffled gave her a weak smile.

"Lasses, if you knew anything at all, you would realize the foolishness of your wild escapade. There is a garrison of Easterlings and their orc allies about twenty miles upriver from us. Then another twenty miles to the west lies the Great West Road, and it is patrolled regularly by the Mordorian cavalry troops. Between here and there, your Haradric masters have surely sent out searchers, and if what I heard was true, there are part-breed orcs in their employ. Your chances of ever escaping such a formidable host and returning to your own land are about as likely as finding the lost palantír!" Emphasizing his point with another loud crash of his fist on the table, the old man fixed them with a triumphant stare.

At his gloomy words, Elfhild's shoulders sagged in despair. "Sir, then what are we to do?" she asked, her voice tortured with uncertainty. "You make it seem so desperate!"

"Give ourselves up and hope they will treat us with mercy?" Elffled suggested hopefully as she turned bright, expectant eyes to Elfhild. "I told you in the first place that we never should have tried to escape." She wondered if finally she might meet the sweet-voiced singer of the riverbank, and if he would be as handsome as she dreamed. Perhaps she would soon know. However, her thoughts were interrupted when her sister dug her fingers into her hand as a warning. Elffled jerked her injured hand away and then scowled at the other girl.

Before tapping his pipe ashes out against the edge of the bench and onto the floor, Tarlanc studied them from beneath his hoary brow. His eyes moved back and forth between them as he refilled his pipe with a fresh supply of Westman's weed and lit it up. His sharp eyes sent them a rebuke. "There you go, interrupting me again! Can you girls not hold your peace for one instant? I was not finished talking!"

"Forgive us our rudeness, sir. We promise not to interrupt again." Elfhild did not feel as though she needed to apologize to this brusque old man, but she thought better of her manners when she considered that he could have been far more severe on them for barging into his house and taking his property.

"Yes, sir," came Elffled's contrite reply. "We have been very poor guests in your home."

"Aye, that you have, lass!" he exclaimed. "But now you are at least showing a little sense. I accept your apologies, for I believe that they were given in sincerity. Now let us get down to business." He stabbed the end of his pipe at them, a habit which both sisters found irritating.

"Sir, what do you mean?" a curious Elfhild asked. "Get down to business?" Feeling guilty about the rough treatment that she had dealt her sister's hand, she gave it a consolatory pat. Elffled bestowed upon her a forgiving smile that said the quarrel had been resolved and all was well once again.

"Why, I am going to help you escape, of course!" Throwing back his head, Tarlanc laughed unexpectedly, a sound which seemed out of keeping with anything that had been said. Haun lifted up his head and looked around questioningly.

Elfhild blinked, taken aback by this sudden change of mood. "Just a moment ago, you were telling us how hopeless the westward journey was, and before that, you were threatening to hand us over to the slavers!" she exclaimed, gesturing to the side and then letting her hand drop in frustration. This old miller and his circuitous manner of speaking was making her head hurt!

Tarlanc's mood of levity soon disappeared, however, and he cocked his head to the side, as would some quizzical bird. "Quite hopeless for you, my girls, for you would soon fall into the hands of the slavers. With your total incompetency and blind foolhardiness, I am surprised that they have not already captured you. As I have long suspected, fools must be protected by some power far higher than themselves." He shook his head. "No, you will soon be caught, for you have no knowledge of this country, no way to take care of yourselves, and no sense!"

"Sir," Elfhild exclaimed incredulously, "you would help us?"

"Are you deaf?" he shouted. "What did I just say?" Scowling, he fixed her with a piercing stare. Elfhild opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off with a sharp retort. "Do not answer that! Your senseless chatter distracts me! It is impossible to arrive at any conclusion when my concentration is constantly being broken by useless remarks! Now be silent! If you two are to be saved, I must arrive at some plan to secret you past the enemy patrols and take you into the mountains." He rose to his feet and energetically walked about the room, his deep eyes hidden in shadows as he cogitated. Frequently muttering to himself, he stomped about the room, puffing out great billowing clouds of smoke from the bowl of his pipe.

Suddenly he swung around and glared at them, fiercely shaking his pipe in their direction, a stream of blue smoke swirling around the bowl and stem. "Those collars! They mark you as runaway slaves. If they cannot be removed, you might as well give yourselves up to the next Haradric patrol which goes by. Plague take it! Why were you two stupid enough to be captured?"

"Our whole village was captured!" Elfhild cried out in indignation. She did not mention, however, that those who had fled to the mountains early on in the war had probably evaded capture, hiding in the steep and rugged fastness of the alpine terrain. Revealing that information would only confirm Tarlanc's low estimation of them and make him even more adamant in his opinion.

Quickly Tarlanc strode around to the other side of the table, where he unceremoniously pushed Elffled's unkempt hair away from the back of her neck. Too frightened to argue, she dared not move a muscle and sat there as stiff and straight as a board, barely daring to breathe. Peering down at her collar, he mumbled, "A file, of course." He tested the distance between her neck and the collar with a finger and scowled. He tried the lock and the hinge, but found them both strong. After determining the thickness of the metal between thumb and forefinger, he gathered up her hair and smoothed it down over her back.

"Whoever designed this piece of work knew what he was doing," he grumbled as he moved to the other side of the table and rested his hands along the edge. "The collar is designed to fit so snugly that any poor wretch who was cursed to wear it might stab himself in the throat should he attempt to file it off. Hmmm," he reflected, "I am going to have to work very carefully here. Now you girls understand that I am not a blacksmith, and that it is entirely possible that the file might slip."

"What a comforting thought," Elfhild muttered sarcastically.

Gasping, Elffled squeaked in alarm and put her hand to her mouth to stifle the noise. "Oh no! I certainly hope that the file does not slip! We both want to keep our necks intact, after all!"

"Well, it is a lot of hassle and bother for me to go out of my way and help two wayward girls who tried to rob me," Tarlanc sniffed. "Perhaps we should forget the whole thing, and I will return you to your masters in the morning."

At those words, Elfhild's face turned an ashen pale. "No! No!" she cried, shaking her head. "Please, sir, do not send us back!" Her voice trembled as she reached her hand up to him imploringly.

"Well, sister, he did mention that taking the collars off might be hazardous. I certainly do not like to think of having my throat slit or my neck broken." Elffled shivered at the thought of this grim-faced, eccentric old man anywhere near her neck. "Maybe if we hurry back to the Haradrim, they will still grant us mercy," she thought brightly, but did not dare to say the traitorous words out loud.

Turning to her sister, Elfhild froze her with a icy stare before returning her gaze to Tarlanc. "I trust you... at least I want to trust you. I will allow you to remove my collar first. Then when my sister sees that you have been..." she gulped, "...successful, all her fears will be alleviated."

Elffled was not so certain, but she knew that there was no arguing with her sister when her mind was set. "If you are sure," she murmured as she lay her hand upon her sister's forearm. Though Elfhild gave a brave little smile, her twin knew she was apprehensive.

"I am sure," Elfhild replied softly.

Tarlanc tapped the spent ashes from his pipe upon the sole of his boot and lay the pipe down on the table. "We might be here quite a long time. This could take all night. Let me think." He tugged on his earlobe as he pondered his next step. "There are some files in the mill which might do the trick. You two girls stay right here; do not move. Haun will guard you while I go fetch some."

Tarlanc was halfway to the door before Elfhild had the presence of mind to call to him. "Tarlanc, what made you decide to help us?"

From where he stood by the door, he gave them a frowning stare. "Your country and mine have been allies for a very long time. When one of our lands has been in peril, the other has ridden to its assistance. When there were no others upon whom we could count, we could depend upon the other. Gondor and Rohan have always stuck together." He paused before continuing. "It is only right that I help the idiot daughters of my country's ally." Then he turned, opened the door, and was gone.


	36. Chapter 35 - Unshackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

"What do you suppose is keeping him, Hild?" Elffled asked anxiously. "How long does it take to go to the barn anyway? He could have been there and back twice by now!"

"Who knows, sister?" Elfhild shrugged her shoulders. "The man is a stranger to us; we only met him a few hours ago. For all we know, right now he is heading to report us to the first enemy patrol he can find."

"Wait -- I heard something!" Elffled's eyes went to the door, where Haun was whining softly and wagging his tail.

"Did not think that I was coming back, did you, lasses?" Tarlanc grinned as he opened the door and reached down to scratch the huge mastiff behind his collar. "Had a little trouble finding the files. They were not where I thought I had left them. While I was out there, I drew a pail of water for the night." After placing the bucket on the table, he turned to look at the sisters. "Now we need to get to the problem of filing those accursed collars from your necks."

A few minutes later, an apprehensive Elfhild sat on a stool near the brazier, the brightest place in the room. Unfortunately, it was also the warmest, which would have been quite pleasant upon a winter day, but made her miserably hot in the sweltering heat of summer. As sweat began to bead up on her forehead, she twiddled her fingers nervously.

The old miller first locked the windows and doors for the night, and then he was ready to begin removing the hated collars. He examined the band around Elfhild's neck, peering at it speculatively. "Here, girl," he looked at Elffled, "fetch the lamp and hold it closer so that I can see better. Too blasted dark in here!" He rubbed his thumb over the collar's hinge and then looked up with a curse. "Damn! This business will not be so easy as I had first thought. I had it all figured out that when I tapped a small pin against the hinge pin, it would unlock the collar, but this one is far too big and I cannot find any smaller." He sighed loudly. "This will not be easy, no, not easy at all." He shook his head. "Now plague take it! Seems like I will have to file it off after all! Is anything ever simple in life?" At the sound of irritation in his master's voice, Haun looked up questioningly, but settled down at his master's words, "Haun, my good sir, do not worry, old fellow. There will just be a little delay. That is all."

"Please be careful," Elfhild implored, quiet urgency in her voice.

"Of course, I am going to be careful! After all, I am not in the habit of killing little girls by stabbing them in the neck with files!" Tarlanc exclaimed irritably, studying her slender neck. "Brace yourself, lass!" He slowly began to file the metal, the noise sounding harsh and rasping in the still evening air. Closing her eyes, Elfhild held her breath as she felt the first of the tiny shavings hit her skin. Elffled cringed as she heard the disconcerting sound, fearing that at any moment the file might slip and drive into her sister's neck.

For the next half hour, Tarlanc worked in silence, the only sounds in the small hut that of the rasping file, Tarlanc's occasional coughing, the girls' breathing, and Haun's rumbling snores. Perspiration streaked his furrowed brow, and he wiped his face off with the back of his sleeve. The skin under his right eye twitched and jerked, and his jaw clenched and then relaxed when he considered that he had made some progress. His nervous mannerisms distracted the twins and caused them to feel even more uneasy.

"Finally, I am making some headway!" he muttered as he paused in his labors and wiped the iron filings off his fingers. "But I must remind you, lass, do not fidget!" He sawed the grooved side of the file into the iron, chewing a little deeper with every stroke. Elfhild had begun to feel like a horseshoe under the blacksmith's unyielding hammer, her skull and spine vibrating with every rasp. Wincing, she gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut. The never-ending noise made her ears hum as though a hive of bees were buzzing inside her brain.

"You might as well relax, my girl. We will be here a while longer, and if you are very lucky, my hand on the file will not falter. You could get a nasty wound on your pretty neck if the file slipped. Tedious work, this, and I would not wish it upon anybody." The old man sniffed loudly, his features drooping into a mournful, much put upon expression, a poorly concealed bid for sympathy.

Thinking it better to be silent, Elfhild concentrated upon getting through this ordeal. She was beginning to gain grudging confidence in the man; at least he had not yet hurt her.

With a sudden surge of energy, Tarlanc briskly moved the file up and down the metal. His eyes sparkling with elation, the old man breathed heavily as his hand trembled upon the file. "Ah, victory at last! I have cut through!" Tarlanc exclaimed as he set the file aside. Gripping both ends of the collar firmly, he pulled it apart and away from Elfhild's neck.

"There you go, lass!" he exulted as he waved the collar in front of her face. "Never thought you would see that, did you? Not bad work for an old fellow, is it?" The elderly miller beamed.

"Oh, it is wonderful! How can I ever thank you, sir?" Elfhild exclaimed as she turned to look at him. She could not resist the impulse to bring both hands up to her neck and feel the skin for the first time in almost a month. Oh, this was so exciting! At last the hateful thing was gone from her neck! She wished she had a looking glass, but she doubted that the old man would have such a thing. Though she knew it was vanity, she wanted to reassure herself that her skin had not suffered too much harm under the relentless band. She only hoped that the pale white ring where the collar had shielded her neck from the sun and the callouses it had rubbed on her skin would not be too obvious. Perhaps there was some way to conceal the telltale marks.

"Oh, are you feeling gratitude now, lass?" Tarlanc chuckled slyly. "After that labor, I need a draught of wine and some time to rest my aching arm and back!" He gave her a broad grin, showing a mouth full of wide-spaced, large yellow teeth. Taking the collar, he walked over to the table and sank down on the bench. He nodded to Elffled, "Over there on that shelf, you will find a bottle of wine. Draw out some water from the pail over there, rinse out our cups, and pour us all a healthy draught of wine. Then we will have a bit of a talk - you must have learned by now how fond I am of a bit of talk - before I do much of anything."

Even though he had removed the collar, Elfhild still did not feel at ease around this formidable old man, and so she took a place on the other side of the table from him. She watched as her sister went about cleaning the cups and pouring the wine. Elffled did not seem at all displeased about carrying out the old man's wishes. In fact, was that the hint of a smile upon her lips?

"Now I would guess that you girls are puzzled about me, who I am, and why I am the only one remaining in Ivrenlaer, which is the name of this town. Knowing the natural curiosity of women, I am sure you must be wondering about what happened to the village. Now that I have a little time, I will relate what transpired." It was obvious that the old man had settled into a round of storytelling, which - judging from the sparkle in his eyes and the excitement which had crept into his voice - he was looking forward to eagerly.

"As I told you before, my forefathers never owned the mill, but were granted the lease by Lord Caun's ancestors. For three generations, my family has ground the flour and meal for the lord and his tenants. Because of my ancestors' work and efforts, they achieved a respectable degree of prosperity. It was a prosperous time, and peace lay upon the land. Although we always knew that there was a chance that war would come someday, we grew complacent with our fertile fields, full barns and well-stocked storehouses. When the war finally came, the Easterlings and orcs swept over us in a bloody tide. Nothing could stand in their way!"

Obviously upset at the memory, Tarlanc looked across the table at the twins. "I see your expressiones, lasses. The very names strike terror in you, and well they should!" His nostrils flaring, his eyes blazing, the old man's voice rose louder. Though the twins were sure that every word that Tarlanc spoke was of the utmost sincerity, still both girls could not help suspecting that not a few of the old man's impassioned mannerisms were performed for dramatic effect. His zest for storytelling was obvious.

As he warmed up to his subject, Tarlanc's facial expressions grew more animated, and often he would gesticulate wildly as he emphasized a point. His spirited delivery woke up Haun, arousing the mastiff to a state of agitated alertness. Though Tarlanc reassured him, still the dog remained fretful and anxiously paced about the room until a sharp word from his master compelled him to lie quietly. Still, the dog would not sleep and lay there in discontentment, whining from time to time as he kept his eyes fixed on his master. Occasionally, he would raise his nose to test the air for some unknown scent.

"Fool dog!" Tarlanc grumbled as he scowled at the mastiff. "Something has put his balls in an uproar! If I did not know better, I would say that he has caught the scent of a female in heat, but there have been few dogs of any kind around since the orcs killed them... and probably ate them."

"Oh, how horrible!" Elfhild shuddered, thinking of the fate of her poor dog at the hands of the orcs.

Turning pale, Elffled put her hand to her mouth. "Those depraved fiends! They ate all of the dogs?" While she knew full well of the cruelty of orcs, she could not believe that any creature, no matter how monstrous, could possibly have eaten every dog in the area.

"Aye, they did! Once I saw an orc bring down one hound with an arrow through its bowels! The brute was on the poor beast while it was still alive and howling! Tore the living flesh from its bones, he did! The orc, a huge, hideous monster, turned to me and growled as though he thought I might challenge him for the carcass." Tarlanc shuddered, his old shoulders quivering, as a look of fear crossed his face. "Snarling and showing his fangs, the orc tore off one of the dog's leg bones and threw it at me! I was not about to argue with him, and so I decided it was time for me to make my retreat."

Sighing wearily, Tarlanc shook his head. "'Twas the most savage thing I have ever seen in my life! The sight unnerved me for many a day after that, and kept my dreams fraught with nightmares. After the orcs came to these parts, the dogs all eventually disappeared. The same thing happened with all the livestock. The orcs hunted them down and ate them. Probably did the same thing with any stragglers they found."

Questions troubled Elfhild's mind, gruesome, morbid questions, but still she had to ask them. "Tarlanc, I know the idea is disgusting, but I must know. What about the orcs' masters, the Easterlings? Do you know if they eat dog meat, too?"

"What a sickening subject!" A queasy look upon her face, Elffled leaned forward and pressed her hand to her stomach.

"Lasses, you do not have to worry any on that score, so cast such thoughts from your minds. There is a lot of evil which has been said about the Easterlings - and I do not doubt that much of it is true - but many of them are as particular about what they eat as you and I are. They would consider it a grave insult to imply that they would ever taste the flesh of dog, or any such beast which would be repugnant to us."

"What about the Haradrim?" Elffled queried timorously, almost dreading to hear the answer. Her curiosity was piqued by the mention of these exotic tawny men. Though she had not found the courage to admit it to herself yet, they were occupying a greater and greater part of her fantasies, and she did not want her illusions to be shattered.

His eyebrows furrowing, Tarlanc rubbed his bearded chin thoughtfully as he considered her question. After looking down at the collar on the table, he rubbed the broken section with his thumb. "You must realize that I know nothing for a certainty, and what I report is merely hearsay. Keeping that in mind, I can tell you this: they are a populous and varied people and make their homes in many different climes. From all I have heard, they eat about the same as we do, except I have heard that some of their holy men and sages forbid the eating of pork and the drinking of fermented spirits, avowing that both are unwholesome for man."

He paused and shifted his position on the bench. "Though the Southrons are civilized enough, there are rumors of other peoples who are so abominable that I shudder to think about them. While I do not want to frighten you," he lowered his voice, "some mariners and explorers have related that far to the south in the farthest reaches of Far Harad, there are tribes of savage men who feed upon other men. They are called the Sarqindi, the cannibal-ogres. These terrifying savages are reputed to be as black as the inside of a cat's belly, with eyes like orbs of pale fire and red tongues long and forked like those of serpents."

A look of skepticism upon his face, Tarlanc chuckled softly. "I will admit I like a good yarn told around the brazier on a cold winter's night as well as any man. However, I cannot say that I put much credit in such outlandish tales." His glance rested on Elffled. "Now, if you want this collar taken off your neck before dawn, I had best be getting at it. Come now, lass, and sit down on the stool by the fire, where I can get a good look at you. You, the other one," he lifted his chin in Elfhild's direction, "bring my wine and give me a draught now and then when I tell you."

After Elffled had taken a seat on the stool, Tarlanc set to work filing off her collar. While his manner had been gruff with her sister, he was much more loquacious with Elffled. Perhaps the old man had taken a fancy to her, or possibly it was the wine that had put him in a more jovial mood. Whichever the case, he kept up a steady stream of lively conversation throughout the interlude until he began to recount the invasion of Gondor, and then his mood changed.

"Back on the 10th day of March, the Easterlings crossed the Anduin at Cair Andros. 'Twas a dreadful battle with the garrison on the island, and though our men put up a brave and noble battle against the invaders, they were overwhelmed. The fortress fell with a great loss of blood..." His voice wavered. "I do not like to think upon it." As a deep look of sadness spread over his face, the old man's voice broke. Tears came to his eyes, and he impatiently wiped them away with his knuckles. "A moment, lasses, a moment while I collect my thoughts." Bending his head, he put his hand to his forehead. When at last he was able to speak, the old miller continued his tale.

"Leaving behind a small force to occupy the island, the enemy commander and the bulk of his troops crossed the river to the west bank," Tarlanc explained. "There, he divided his forces into two bodies, sending one south to Minas Tirith and the other to guard the Great West Road against any incursion by the Rohirrim. This great host swept through the countryside, gobbling up everything as they came to it. This village lay in their path, but I suppose you could say that we were fortunate, for word came to us in time. Everyone fled, although they had to leave most of their possessions behind them... everyone, that is, except Haun and me." The old man paused for breath.

"Tarlanc, sir," Elfhild interjected, "please do not think it presumptuous of me to ask, but why did you stay?"

"Pig-headed cantankerousness, though some might call it stupidity. I prefer to think of it as determination and resolve," he chuckled. "Lass, it is like this." The old man took a sip of wine and rolled it in his mouth before swallowing it. "I was not going to let a bunch of worthless, no good, thieving scoundrels drive me away from the place where I was born or from the care of the lord's mill. Seeing as how I was the oldest man in the village, it just did not seem right to me to run away and leave it all.

"It is not as though I was a young fellow with a wife and family and had someone for whom to fight." The dim light of the lamp cast Tarlanc's deep set eyes into shadow, making him look ancient. "I am an old man, a widower, the father of three sons and one daughter, the last I know all of them living. Except for my youngest son, his wife and two sons who lived here with me, my other children had their own cottages in the village, while my daughter and her husband lived in Minas Tirith. My youngest son would have inherited the right to run the mill and live in the cottage when I was gone. It was not as though I count for much anymore." He gave them a wry grin.

"When we were sure that the enemy was coming, my sons and their families packed up everything. When they begged me to flee south to Minas Tirith with them, I refused. I am a stubborn man, you see. I told all of them to go, but I would remain." He flicked a questioning glance to Elffled, as though seeking approval. "I was just seeing if you were listening." When she nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkled up in a smile.

"Oh, Tarlanc," Elffled exclaimed sympathetically, "you should have gone with the others!"

"I told you I am a stubborn man!" He turned to Elfhild, who was standing beside him. "Lass, bring the cup to my lips. I could use some wine now. Mind you, girl, do not spill any on my beard, or you will have to wash it out!" His eyes crinkled in an impish smile.

"Sir, you were lucky to escape with your life!" Elfhild chided him as she lifted the cup to his lips. Though she found him an ill-tempered curmudgeon, she felt sympathy for him and his village. His story had unnerved her, reminding her of the tragedy of her own village at the hands of the orcs. "We saw where a terrible fire had swept through the village. Did the Easterlings cause that?" she asked softly.

Tarlanc wiped away the wine on his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now that is a story, I would like you to know! When a detachment of the enemy cavalry rode into the village, I was the only one left, and I was there waiting to meet them. What do you think they did when they saw me?" Pausing in his filing of her collar, he waited for what he was certain would be her surprised response. "They laughed at me! Think of that! They laughed at me as though I were the most ridiculous sight that they had ever seen in all their lives! There they were, sitting up there on their fine horses, looking down on me, talking in their own language and laughing their heads off. Then I began laughing, too, right there, in the middle of the main road of Ivrenlaer!

"All of us had a good laugh until another group of cavalry trotted down the street. Their leader, an arrogant little bastard of a popinjay, gestured towards me and barked out some orders to his men. Then three big fellows laid hold of me, bound my hands behind my back, and forced me to my knees. One of them shoved my head down as their leader raised his scimitar, preparing to hack off my head. Just then, the commanding general rode up with his staff and said something to the saucy little fellow who had taken such a fancy to parting my head from my body."

Tarlanc chuckled as he sawed the file up and down. "After the two of them talked a while in their own language, the general looked sympathetically at me. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he had been directing some right sharp remarks at the short man. The sum of it all was that the general proclaimed me mad before all of his men there assembled. He added that if any man harmed me, he would personally see that he was punished severely. He told me that while he was in command, he would see that I was treated kindly and that I did not go hungry. For a barbarian, the general was remarkably civilized." Tarlanc smiled wryly.

Elfhild held the cup up to his lips again. "While I am impressed with your tale, you did not answer my question. Did the Easterlings burn the town?"

"You ask if the Easterlings set fire to the village?" Tarlanc's bushy eyebrows arched. "No, lass, nothing quite so dramatic as that, although the fire was exciting enough. Actually, no one really knows how the blaze started, but some believe that the culprit was a fool who knocked over a candle or lantern in his haste to escape, and the fire smoldered for a long time before it finally erupted into a conflagration. The orcs made no real attempt to quench the fire. The blaze continued until it burnt itself out."

"Ahhh, there it is free!" the old man shouted in triumph. "Here it is, lass." Proud as the cock of the walk, he almost strutted as he moved in front of Elffled and placed the collar in her hands. Clutching the now broken band, she looked up at him through misty eyes.

"Oh, sir!" Elffled exclaimed as she rubbed away the tears. "How can I ever express my gratitude?"

"A simple thank you will do, lass, though it is no thanks I am offering you for the lice that you have brought to my house." A mischievous grin brightened up the old man's face. "That lovely blonde hair is crawling with the vermin! Now, now, do not fret." With the tip of his forefinger, he wiped away a tear which had slid down Elffled's cheek. "We will do something about those pests tomorrow, but I am too exhausted even to think about it tonight. It is way past my bedtime..." Tarlanc attempted to stifle a mighty yawn with his hand. "In case you two are wondering where you will sleep, you will find my bed nothing elaborate, but quite comfortable. There are several sleeping mats that I keep on hand for visitors, and I will sleep on one out here." He smiled benignly. "Come, I will light a candle for you." As Tarlanc motioned for the girls to follow him to the bedroom, Haun suddenly sprang to his feet and growled menacingly.

"Quick, lasses!" Tarlanc exclaimed in a hissing whisper and held up his hand for silence. "Riders! I can hear them now! Haun must have sensed them earlier, and that is why he has been so restless this eve. I do not think you want to meet them, lasses, for no honest man is abroad at this hour of the night! Hide in the bedroom and be quiet, and take these damn collars with you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sarqindi were mentioned in an early outline Tolkien created for the story of Eärendil. "Voronwë and Eärendil set sail in Wingilot. Driven south. Dark regions. Fire mountains. Tree-men. Pygmies. Sarqindi or cannibal-ogres." - The Book of Lost Tales, Part Two, p. 254


	37. Chapter 36 - Night Riders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

One ferocious growl after another rolling from his throat, Haun bounded to the front door and thrust his massive paws high upon the center brace. Tarlanc snatched up the hammer and was quickly beside the giant mastiff. "Shhh, noble heart," he whispered, bending down to lay his hand on the dog's head. "We can both be certain that our visitor is a villain who means us no good. Still we do not have to let him know our opinions."

The dog's angry barking quieted to low snarls. Dropping down to all fours, Haun gazed up questioningly at his master. They listened as the sound of hoof beats drew closer to the cottage, becoming louder and louder until the horsemen halted in front of the house. His hackles bristling, his short ears alert, Haun kept up a low, rumbling growl as he scented the horses and their riders. The master and his dog listened to the horses snort and blow, the animals' bit chains jangling as they shook their heads. Saddle leather creaked as the riders dismounted.

A few moments later, there was a firm knock at the door, the sound resonating in the stillness of the night like the heavy thud of a hammer driving a nail into a wooden coffin. Unmoving, Tarlanc stood by the door, his breath coming in measured exhalations as he considered what might be lurking outside.

A suspicious and superstitious man, he was not one to take chances if he could possibly avoid them. One never knew who... or what... might come knocking on your door late at night... Perhaps the caller was a bold robber who would distract you while his fellows slipped in through your back window and cut your throat... Or, worst of all, the visitor could be some undead wight which had crept from its darkened tomb and was seeking out the living so it could drink their blood, feast on their flesh, and suck out the marrow from their bones.

Old Tarlanc had heard of such things, and he trembled as a chill of fear tingled down his spine. Why, just last summer, there had been tales of an unspeakable terror that had swept through Anórien like a whirlwind of darkness. No one knew what it had been, and everyone had his own version of the story, often enthusiastically related over tankards of stout ale in the local taverns. There had even been several women, respectable matrons of the land, who had claimed that they had been seduced and impregnated by foul, unseen phantoms. Tarlanc, though, had always discounted such rumors as nothing but pure fabrications to hide the ladies' own transgressions with local men.

Perhaps the Nameless Fear of the Summer of 3018 had returned and was out there waiting for him in the dim shadows! Though he clenched his teeth tightly together, still the old miller could not prevent them from chattering. His long, thin legs shook, his knees knocking together like a shutter flapping against the side of a house in a windstorm. Cold beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. One knock, heavy and ominous, upon his door... His heart thudding in his chest, he waited for the second.

One always had to wait for the third knock ere opening the door, for a single, solitary knock upon your door in the night was a fell omen, and to answer that foreboding call meant death. Though he had no wish to open his door to either a robber or some creature of undead morbidity, still Tarlanc had to make a decision. He would have no choice if the caller were the darkly robed spectre of Death; no one could refuse that summons.

Another knock, short and quick, fell upon upon his door. Still Tarlanc did not answer. The thick, suffocating silence was broken only by the deep growls of Haun. Swallowing a gulp of air down his parched throat, Tarlanc reached down to the mastiff. He put a shaky hand upon Haun's collar, more for the sense of comfort that it gave him than with any idea to restrain the dog. If indeed Death were knocking, there was nothing that a mere beast, even one as massive and brave as Haun, could do to hold back the inevitable.

There was another pause, and then came the third knock. Tarlanc's legs shook and he sagged against the door post. He exhaled his tightly pent up breath in a long, heavy sigh which slipped past his dry lips in a low whistle. "We are safe, sir! Safe anyway in the sense that our caller is not undead," he told Haun as he patted his head and stared at the door. "But the living can be just as dangerous as preternatural beings, often times even more."

"Open this door!" a stern voice called from outside. "Open this door!"

"Who is there?" Tarlanc called sharply. "What do you want at this time of night?"

"Agents of the House of Huzziya, here upon official business," the man replied gruffly. "Now let us in!"

"I have never heard of the House of Huzziya," Tarlanc lied, for he had seen the name of Esarhaddon uHuzziya on the girls' collars. Desperately trying to think of some plan which would save the sisters, he stalled for time. "If you be some of those vagabonds who parade around from village to village selling worthless gewgaws and trinkets, you can leave right now, for I will have no truck with you!"

"Sir," the man exclaimed irritably, "we are men of good reputation, authorized by the lawful rulers of this land to conduct commerce in this district! If you would want to see our official papers, we are prepared to offer them to you for your inspection."

"I am not in the habit of letting strangers in my house late at night. For all I know, you could be lying robbers who would cut my throat for a pittance. Until I have some reason to believe you are men of good conscience, we shall conduct whatever business we have through this door." As each moment passed, Tarlanc became more and more uncertain about his ability to forestall his unwelcomed visitors.

"Sir, we are seeking Tarlanc, the Miller of Ivrenlaer, who is said to be the only person still residing in this village. Can you tell us where to find him?"

"I am he," Tarlanc admitted, making his voice sound as cold as he could.

"Then you are the man for whom we seek! We have been told that you are a man who knows which way the winds blow." The man had a sarcastic, supercilious tone to his voice that infuriated Tarlanc. "If you can provide us with certain information, I promise that we can make it well worth your while." The man spoke with a slight accent that was unmistakably Haradric. Tarlanc had heard enough of those rascals of late to be able to identify one when he heard him. "If you would just open this door," the Southron went on, "we might converse face to face and discuss an important matter with you."

"You are close enough now, sir. In spite of your high sounding words, you might be meaning to do me ill." Nearby a horse whinnied shrilly, causing Tarlanc to jump and sending Haun into another fit of barking. "Shhh," Tarlanc whispered as he nervously raked his fingers through his long gray hair.

"Your accusations are ridiculous, sir," the Southron replied adamantly. "We are honest men of good repute. There are no brigands among us. Simply open the door and let us in. It will save us all much trouble."

"You are fine where you are, sir. We can talk perfectly well from here. Now you say you have business with me. If you are wanting me to grind your grain, I cannot do that, for it is late. Come back tomorrow, and leave me in peace tonight. Can a poor old man not get his rest without being awakened at all hours of the night by strangers?" Tarlanc's voice was pleading.

"We seek information," the man replied stiffly.

"What sort of information are you seeking?" Tarlanc answered him circumspectly, having concluded that for his own safety he had best be cordial to the men. He would give them some innocuous bit of information which would appease them and lead them away from the two lasses who hid in his house.

"Old man, at last you are showing a better attitude and asking the right sort of questions!" the Southron announced patronizingly. "We have come looking for runaway slaves who have escaped from our master, Esarhaddon uHuzziya of the slave house of the same name. He has a commission from the Lord Who Rules This Land that allows him to deal in slaves in these newly claimed territories."

"Slavers, damn it, Haun! Now they admit it!" Tarlanc hissed and clenched the hammer tighter. Haun barred his teeth, his throat vibrating with deep growls in agreement with his master's tone. "They are looking for the lasses, but we will not let them take the poor girls! Haun, what should we do?" The mastiff looked up at him quizzically and wagged his tail. "Stalwart lad! You would drive the men away, for you are a brave young fellow and always take the most direct course. I am old, and find it easier to take the more circuitous route."

"There are no slaves in this house," Tarlanc proclaimed loudly, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice. "Be gone with you, sir, and let an honest man sleep!"

"You have avowed that you are Tarlanc the Miller." The Southron once again was losing patience with the old man, and his displeasure was evident in his surly tone. "You are said to be one who has shown himself friendly to us and are favored by General Qarräd of Ninwi, commander of this division of the army. Your star can shine brighter in the lord's eyes if you cooperate and reassure us of your good faith and loyalty. There will be a generous reward if you can give us any information that would lead to the capture of the slaves." The intruder chuckled sarcastically, and his snickering was picked up and amplified by his comrades. Gritting his teeth and shaking the hammer at the door, Tarlanc held his tongue, for he was too angry to reply.

"Why do you not answer me, old man?" The voice was menacing. "Do you have something to hide? Answer me quickly, or I will be forced to break down your door!"

"No, no, please, sir! Do not do such a thing! I am a cautious old man, much given to fears." Tarlanc's voice trembled. "Now that I know that you are friends of General Qarräd, I feel much more confident of you, and we can be friends. While you know my name, I do not know yours. Speak now, stranger, and let there be no secrets between us," he hedged, still unable to think of some plausible story that would satisfy these men.

"I am Captain Ubri uMandum, first in command of the bodyguards of the illustrious Shakh uHuzziya - may his house endure forever! I speak for the men with me - Ganbar, second in command, and Inbir, third. Now that you know our names, old man, you should be content. Now open this door!" The impatience in his voice was growing.

Ubri had been told by scouts from Cair Andros that though the old man was completely insane, he was harmless and far too fearful of soldiers to try anything foolish. The Southron had also been informed that the old man had done his best to ingratiate himself with General Qarräd. The old Anórian was reputed to be little more than a boot-licking toady who would debase himself for a piece of bread or a cup of wine. However, Tarlanc was not living up to his reputation, and was proving to be quite difficult. The old man's stalling and whining had become exceedingly vexing to Ubri. Any more of his long-winded mumbling, and Ubri and his men would rush the door.

"Good sirs, you must be patient with me, for I am only an old man and age weighs heavily upon me. My strength is not what it once was," Tarlanc wheedled, his voice cracking and cowering. "I cannot allow you into my cottage for your own safety. My dog is a vicious beast, as feral as a wolf in his ferocity. He would surely tear you limb from limb! While I would do my best to prevent him, I am an old man and sick of the ague, and unable to control him. Please understand why I cannot open my door to you!"

Silence met his words, and then Tarlanc heard the angry murmuring of voices. He knew that the slavers were conferring amongst themselves. A few minutes passed, and then he heard the sound of more heavy boots approaching his door.

"Tarlanc, we do not want to be compelled to slay your dog. Perhaps if you would be more willing to cooperate, it will not be necessary for us to come inside." The Southron had an almost inborn dislike of dogs, considering them foul, dirty creatures, little better than jackals. While he hated them, he also feared the beasts, and was not eager to risk being mauled.

Tarlanc noted that the man's voice had tensed. Chuckling to himself, he thought, "Their fear has made them cautious, as I had hoped it would. They do not know that Haun will obey my every word. Better they believe I am a useless old man in my dotage who cannot even handle his own dog. Anything to keep them from forcing my door open and finding the lasses!" he told himself. "Now I must tell them something which will satisfy them."

"Describe to me the ones for whom you seek," he urged. "Mayhap I have seen some of them. You must realize, though, that age has rendered me unable to remember as well as I once could. My hearing is also failing me. Speak up, good sir, so that I can hear you!" For his own survival among the conquering Easterlings, Tarlanc had found that if he pretended to be senile or mad, that most of them would have pity upon him and leave him be. This deception had proved invaluable, once even saving his life.

Ubri sighed heavily, and when he spoke again, it was in a loud, unpleasant, droning monotone. "There are seven slaves for whom we search. "Three are handsome young blond boys by the names of Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha. The eldest is Fródwine, who is reported to be a bold and impertinent youth of eleven or twelve, cocky and given to a quick temper and aggressive behavior. Frumgár, the middle boy, is eight or so, reputedly a quiet, mild-mannered lad, causing little trouble. Fritha, the youngest, is five, a polite and respectful boy who has only a limited knowledge of Westron, or so I have been told." He paused for breath and then continued.

"Two are women in their early thirties, one Waerburh, a tall woman with hair of burnished gold, and Ascwyn, a petite wench who possesses a pale flaxen mane. Of course, we do not expect them to give you their real names. It would be foolish to think they would tell the truth! The one known as Waerburh has a high-handed and arrogant manner, her femininity oft concealed by a mannish air. On the other hand, Ascwyn is a gentle and submissive female whose voice is as soft and meek as the cooing of a dove." Ubri wondered if the man could even hear him or possessed the ability to comprehend what he was saying, but since it was his duty, he continued his description of the slaves.

"There are also two lovely maidens, twins Elfhild and Elffled. These are damsels of incomparable beauty, whose faces are as lovely as the moon in its fullness and whose long tresses are like strands of spun gold. Their breasts," Ubri licked his lips, "are like lush pomegranates, their waists like the stems of wine goblets. Though they are petite, their legs are long and well-proportioned, their feet small and quite pretty." Warming to his memories of the twins' bountiful attributes, Ubri's voice was thick with lust. "The elder girl, the one named Elfhild, is the leader of the pair. She is said to be spirited and saucy, while her twin is demure and yielding." His throat dry from his long dissertation, Ubri took a drink from his waterskin.

"There, Tarlanc, you have a description for all the slaves still at large. We do not have any reason to believe that these slaves are traveling together, but rather alone or with their kin. Your purse will be considerably heavier if you can tell us anything that will aid us in finding them. Now tell me and tell me truthfully," Ubri's voice was filled with warning, "have you seen any of these runaways?"

"Good gentleman," Tarlanc took his time in answering the man, "you must forgive an old man his infirmities. Being hard of hearing, I first misunderstood a good part of what you had said, but now I understand, and I have good news for you. There were two girls - much like the twins whom you described - at my doorstep early this morning, begging for bread. When I opened my door and saw the collars on their necks, I knew they were escaped slaves. I gave them nothing and drove them away from my door with a broom!"

"Ah, good, good!" Ubri exclaimed, and the other men murmured in agreement. "You acted wisely! Under the recent edict of General Qarräd, military commander for this district of Gondor, it is a crime punishable by death to give aid to an escaped slave. All may not yet be lost, however." Ubri's voice was excited. "Tarlanc, do you know which way they went?

"Aye, yes, sir, as fortune would have it, I do. Last I saw of them, they were crossing the meadow beside my house, heading west." The old miller applauded himself on his brilliance. The twins would sojourn in his cottage for a few days while the slavers searched futilely for them towards the west. Soon enough the Southrons would give up their search and then it would be safe for the twins to journey back to Rohan. This way, there would be time for both girls to rest from their harrowing experiences and put on some weight, for both of them were terribly thin. Having fallen ill with heat sickness just that very day, Elfhild did not need to be traveling. Then there was the matter of the lice which infested the girls' hair... "I might be just an old dotard, but my plan is flawless!"

"How I wish that you could have inveigled the pair into staying!" Ubri's tone was resentful, his previous exuberance turning into disappointment. "Could you not have persuaded them to stay by promising them food and gifts?" Ubri asked angrily. "That failing, you could have seized them and held them captive, and when one of the regular patrols passed by, you could have turned them over to them! If you had only detained the maids, that would have made our task much easier and proved your loyalty beyond any doubt. As I said before, your star would have risen even brighter with the General." Frustrated that the sisters had slipped out of their hands once again, Ubri fought to control his anger.

"Sir, I should have thought of that, but I just wanted to be rid of them. I do not want riffraff such as those two anywhere near my cottage. Alas, I now realize my mistake! Age has made me a regular blockhead. My lord, forgive a doddering old man!" Tarlanc simpered, then glanced down to Haun. "Shhh, stout heart, do not look at me that way. I am only saying this for their benefit!" The dog wagged his tail sympathetically. His master was never wrong.

"That is unfortunate, for if you had held them for us, I would have been willing to give you a magnificent reward. Still, I will be generous and give you a few coins for your aid," Ubri replied condescendingly.

"My lord, thank you for your beneficence! I pray that you find them quickly!" Tarlanc hoped that his false humility sounded believable.

"Old man, fear not," Ubri remarked reassuringly. "It is only a matter of time until we find the slaves. Later tonight, we expect to meet with a party of our orc trackers not far from here. We should return to your mill within a few hours, and I will have the orcs on the trail of the wenches! Even though the escapees have a head start upon us, they are only women and cannot hope to match our pace. Their natural weakness and frailty will hamper them, and they will be forced to rest often. With the aid of the orcs, we should catch up to them long before the sun has reached her zenith!" The Southron's voice had grown louder in his growing exuberance for the chase.

"May the Powers smile favorably upon your quest." The excitement and tension had been almost too much for old Tarlanc. Although his teeth had ceased their chattering, still his knees occasionally knocked together. He put his hand upon the door to steady his shaking. "Now, if you require no more of me, please allow a poor old man to rest his weary bones."

"Aye, we will be leaving now. When you open your door, you will find a bag of fifty copper rims upon your door stoop, which is generous by anyone's account. May peace be upon you and your house. Farewell."

Tarlanc waited at the door until the sounds of hoof beats faded away on the road towards the mill. Then he relaxed his rigid, tense body, his shoulders sagging in weariness. "What a confounded fool I am! I should have known when to stop talking! When that arrogant scoundrel threatened to break in my door, I was so frightened that sense fled my mind and I said the first thing that came to me. I should have told him I never saw anyone and taken my chances! Instead of helping the maidens, I have brought more doom to them and to myself! In just a few hours, the slavers will be right back here at my cottage with their trackers!" Letting the hammer slide from his grip and fall to the floor, he clasped his head in his hands. "Haun, what shall I do? What shall I do?" The mastiff whined sympathetically and licked his hand, but could give him no answers to his dilemma.

When Tarlanc stumbled to the water pail, his hand on the dipper gourd shook so fiercely that he spilled most of the water. Draining the remainder of the liquid, he slumped down on the bench in defeat. "Lasses!" he croaked out in a loud whisper. "Come quickly! I have done you a terrible disservice!"


	38. Chapter 37 - The Long Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar and Elfhild

Cowering under the bed in the pitch dark of the bedroom, the girls strained their ears to hear what was being said in the other room. They feared at any moment that the slavers would overpower the old man and rush in to seize them. Or, just as bad, the old man might succumb to the slavers' promises of rewards, and betray them for treasure and prestige. How well could they really trust Tarlanc? He seemed only a harmless eccentric, and he had helped them after all, but he was still just as much a stranger as he had been when they had first laid eyes upon him. He did seem to be on far too good terms with an enemy general to be trustworthy, Elfhild thought suspiciously.

When they heard Tarlanc call for them, Elfhild and Elffled scurried out from under the bed and rushed to the main room of the cottage. After the darkness of the bedroom, the sisters were momentarily blinded by the light of candle and lantern. When their eyes had adjusted to the brightness, the girls saw before them a scene of utter despair: the old miller sat at the long table, his dejected posture reflecting the soul-crushing anguish which he felt inside. His shoulders slumped forward, the old man's head was bowed as his long, gnarled fingers raked through his lank gray hair and clenched his scalp. Rising from his position by his master, Haun growled at the girls, his hackles bristling. "Haun, no," Tarlanc whispered to the overprotective mastiff. The great hound's snarls turned to a sullen silence, and the dog sat down on his haunches.

"Oh, lasses, I have made a mess of things and done you a terrible disservice!" the miller moaned over and over.

"What kind of disservice?" Elfhild demanded, her voice tense with urgency, her hands clenching the edge of the table. "What has happened?" She leaned forward slightly, her cold blue eyes boring into those of the old Anorian.

Tarlanc looked up, and the sisters could see that he had been weeping. His eyelashes, iced with the frost of age, clung together in glistening wet clumps. The twins could see that there were drops of red among the silver strands where his ragged fingernails had dug into his scalp and drawn blood. "Those men from the South are coming back..." His voice quavering, his tone was as dolorous as that of the chief mourner delivering the eulogy at a funeral, "They will be here in the morning, and then it will be all over for you... and for Haun and me, too!"

"Then why on earth did you tell them?" Elfhild cried, slamming her fist on the table. She had been able to hear only bits and pieces of the conversation with the slavers, but she had heard enough. Such gross incompetence disgusted and angered her. To have all their plans of going home thwarted by a bumbling old fool was just too much! And after all they had been through, all the narrow escapes from danger! If Tarlanc were not such an elderly man, she would fry his ears with her fury.

"Because I was afraid, lass! Scared almost out of my breeches! If they had stormed in here and found you, things would have gone bad for me! These people have no mercy, I tell you! Life means little to them, and they would think nothing of killing an old man if he crossed them. The only reason that I have survived this long is because their general believes me mad and spared my life out of pity. They will not go easy on me this time, though. You can be sure of that! Probably beat me and who knows what else!" He sniffed piteously, wiping his dripping eyes and nose on his sleeve.

"You could have just told the Southrons that we were here, you know, and spared them the effort of riding back," Elfhild retorted bitterly.

"Elfhild--" a dismayed Elffled gasped, aghast at her sister's rude behavior.

"You have to believe me, lass..." His eyes pleading, Tarlanc looked up at Elfhild. "Never would I have given you over to them willingly! Never would I have done such a thing as that! I just wanted to tell them something which would speed them on their way. The first thing that popped into my head was to say that you had come begging at my door this morning and that I had driven you away. Of course, it was a prevarication, but if they believed me, I would not be accused of harboring escaped slaves. I was sure that when they left here tonight, those devils would chase off after you towards the west, but I was wrong. It had been my hopes that the slavers would wear themselves out on the futile search and then give up. Then the westward way would be clear, and it would be safe for you to leave. But nothing worked out the way I had planned it!" More tears streamed from his bloodshot eyes and the old man moaned louder, tearing once again at his hair.

"Sir, do not be so harsh upon yourself!" Elffled murmured quietly, her large blue eyes filled with pity.

"Lass, do not try to excuse me! I should have told them that I had never laid eyes upon you. But like the fool that I am, I said that you had been here this morning, and now they have a fresh trail. They will be returning in the morning and bringing tracking orcs with them! Those fiends are said to be better than hounds at picking up a scent and following it." His watery gray eyes were pathetically begging as he looked at the girls. "You must believe me! How was I to know that the Southrons had orc trackers with them? I thought those monsters were only with the army!"

"Oh, sir, I believe you," Elffled softly murmured as she moved around the table and sat beside him. Lifting one of his large hands, she cradled it between her own small, slender ones. She heard Elfhild grumble in disgust, but ignored her sister's disapproval.

Tarlanc turned to look at her, his eyes kind, a wistful smile softening his austere features. He placed a gentle hand of benediction upon her head and gazed into her eyes. "Lass, you remind me of my daughter. She was much like you, always gracious, compassionate, and imbued with a blithesome spirit. After my wife died, she was the light of this old heart."

"Sir, I am so sorry about your wife," Elffled exclaimed sympathetically. "At least you had them both for a little while."

"Aye, lass, that I did," Tarlanc nodded his head. "And I still have my memories!"

Spinning away from them with a groan, Elfhild leaned against the table and crossed her arms over her chest. Clearing her throat, she demanded petulantly, "Well, now that we only have a few hours ere the Southrons return, what shall we do? Sit here and wait for them?" She did not wish to be unkind, but she felt that the old man was dawdling when he should be formulating a plan which would save them all from the disaster that loomed before them. She hoped that he would actually give more serious thought this time to the consequences of any plan which his muddled brain concocted.

Elffled inhaled deeply and let her breath out in a pained sigh of long-suffering as she rolled her eyes heavenward. "Why, sister, it is all very simple. Since you are always so clever, I am surprised you did not think of it first. We do not want any harm to come to Tarlanc on our account, so we will depart now and resume our journey. This way, there will be no suspicion upon him, and the Southrons will leave him in peace." Perhaps the slavers would find them and recapture them. This was her fearful hope, but she did not express that traitorous thought to the others.

"You will do no such thing, lass!" Tarlanc replied emphatically, almost shouting. "That is the height of foolishness! Those Haradric rascals will catch you before noon, and I hate to think of what they might do when they find you! There are tales, terrible tales..." He shuddered as he considered the stories that he had heard of the Southrons' hideous tortures - splinters of wood driven under the fingernails and toenails of screaming victims and then set afire; men buried up to their necks in sand and their heads covered in honey to attract ants which would feast upon both the honey and their flesh; and men and women whose genitals were smeared with pitch and turned into human torches. He would keep such stories to himself. There was no point in alarming the twins any more than they already were.

His fear had been contagious, though, and he felt Elffled's hands tremble around his. When he saw the look of terror upon her face, he put his hand over hers and caressed it with his thumb. "Now, lass, you cheer up. You should not pay any heed to an old fool whose tongue flaps far too much. My words were rash, only the reflections of a doddering old man's faulty mind which gets him in trouble far too often. You do not have to worry about them anyway! Haun and I are going to protect you!"

Tarlanc rose to his feet, took a deep breath and squared his stooped shoulders. A flicker of pain flashed in his eyes, making them appear brighter as he straightened his back. Yet proudly he stood erect, the carriage of his head high, the pains of all the years temporarily set aside. Somehow, the miller seemed to have shed years and appeared much younger and more hale than before. After months of self-doubt and uselessness, the defeated old man had become one who had found new purpose.

"Lasses! We will not wait around for them! We are leaving here now. There is not a moment to be lost! Listen carefully to me while I tell you what you must do. Although you are dressed as lads, your bodies would betray you the moment anyone saw you. Lads do not have bodies like yours. Do not think me out of order for what I must say." Coloring bright red, Tarlanc cleared his throat. "For your own safety, you must bind your breasts tightly to your chest so that they appear flat. In the bedroom you will find old sheets; tear them up and use them for that purpose."

Elfhild nodded, her expression grave. "Tarlanc, I realize that our situation is perilous. My sister and I will do as you have advised us." Flushing slightly, she waited for his next instructions.

Walking around to the other side of the table, Tarlanc looked down into the upturned faces of the twins. "Would you be willing to cut your beautiful hair? No," he sighed and shook his head. "I can see by your expressions that it is useless to ask. There is no time even to dye your hair a different color." He paused a moment while he collected his thoughts. "Then we will use what we have. Braid your tresses and bind them close to your heads. In one of the trunks in the bedroom, you will find some hoods which once belonged to my grandsons. Cover your heads with them. Do you understand?" The sisters nodded their affirmation that they realized the wisdom in this plan.

"Quickly, now!" he exhorted them as he looked around the room. "Elffled, go to the bedroom and gather up spare clothes for the three of us and wrap them in sheets and blankets. Elfhild, there are plenty of dried beans, lentils, and other provisions stored in the main room and in the loft. Take what you think we will need for the journey. A few pots and pans, knives, spoons, and other eating utensils, and we will be well off. Let me see if I have forgotten anything..." The old man took a mental inventory of what supplies would be necessary. "Ah, yes! There are two tinderboxes on the shelf. Bring both along with us, too! You never know when another one might come in handy!" Smiling at them encouragingly, he turned and walked to the door.

"Tarlanc, where are you going?" Elffled exclaimed, her voice filled with concern as she rose from the table and followed him to the door. "I am afraid to stay here without you!"

"Do not fret, child! Haun will protect you while I am gone. I am headed to the barn behind the house," he explained. "The horses must be saddled and loaded for a long journey. While I am taking care of that, I want you girls to pack everything and be waiting for me at the back door step within a half an hour."

"Horses?" The sisters looked to each other with wide, astonished eyes. Slowly large smiles of joy spread across their faces. Horses! It had been so long since they had ridden. This was certainly an unexpected twist of good fortune!

"Why, certainly, lasses!" Tarlanc looked at them in surprise. "You did not think that I was so great a fool that I would embark on such a long journey on foot, did you?"

"I did not think you a fool at all, sir," Elffled murmured softly, wondering if this irascible old gentleman were anything like her grandfathers had been. Alas, she had never known them, for both had died before she was born.

When Tarlanc returned, the girls were waiting for him on the back stoop, each with a large bundle beside her. He led two bridled and saddled horses, one a tall bay gelding, and the other a gray mare with a lead rope attached to her halter. Saddlebags and grain sacks for the horses were strapped to the backs of the saddles; waterskins and oat bags to the pommels. It was obvious from the old man's beaming face that he was pleased with his quick work at loading the beasts. In the saddlebags, he had included all the supplies which he felt necessary for a long journey - a horse brush, curry comb, hoof pick, four extra horseshoes and horseshoe nails for each mount, along with a picket pin and long lead lines so the animals could be staked out.

"Now you two are going to have to ride double, for these are the only horses I possess. In case you want to know their names, the bay gelding is Sparrow, and the gray mare is named Mithril... after the metal, you know," Tarlanc explained hurriedly as he handed them the horses' reins. "I need to go back into the cottage to fetch a few things." The old man had been gone only a short time when he returned with a small bundle, a lantern, and the two slave collars. Locking the door and putting the key in the pouch on his belt, he turned to the twins.

"I am going to take these two infernal devices and deposit them where they belong - in the privy!" he chortled. The girls giggled as they watched him disappear around the side of the cottage. When he returned, he was beaming, but he seemed tense. Frequently he looked about cautiously and cupped his hand over his ear, as though listening for enemies. As the old man considered the consequences of what he had done, he wondered what would be the penalty for removing the collars of two slaves of Mordor. "Probably death in the most gruesome way which they can conceive," he thought with grim certainty. "But first they have to catch me!" he chuckled to himself.

"Are you all right, sir?" Elffled looked at him uncertainly.

"Never been better in all my life," he told them with much more confidence than he actually felt. "Lasses, I will be honored to help you mount up." Walking over to Elffled, he took the reins from her hand. "Now, little lady," he smiled as he picked her up, "just put your arms around my neck, and I will have you atop that horse in no time." Taken by surprise, she yelped as she felt him swing her up in the saddle. "Now you, lass," he turned and beamed at Elfhild, "I will help you next."

"No, thank you, sir," she retorted flippantly as she tossed her head up into the air, "you must forget that we are Rohirric and can mount a horse with no trouble at all." As she put her left foot in the stirrup, Elffled reached a hand down to her, and soon Elfhild was behind her sister in the saddle.

"This is no time to be getting uppity, lass!" Tarlanc gazed up at her, disappointment etched over his face. "I was only trying to help you."

"Well, I do not need any help," she declared with a haughty lift of her chin.

After securing Elfhild's bundle onto the back of the gray mare's saddle and Elffled's bundle to the bay, Tarlanc mounted his own horse. Haun looked up at him expectantly, his long, red tongue dangling out of his mouth, drooling saliva. "Lasses, now we need to see about getting you two home." He looked back at them, grinning as happily as a lad about to set off on his first great adventure. His smile turned to consternation when Elfhild refused to budge.

"The reins, Tarlanc... give them to my sister. We are not moving from here until you do." Elfhild glared at him icily. "We are sensible young women and not simpletons who must be led around on lead lines."

"You need not be so huffy, lass!" Tarlanc muttered as he dismounted his horse. Shuffling back to the gray, he unfastened the lead line from the mare's halter and stuffed the rope into his belt. "I was not certain that you knew how to ride. Apparently you do." Sniffing, he twitched his mustache. "Now let us not stand out here and talk about it all night. We need to be away!"

Remounting his horse, Tarlanc gazed back at his cottage, now dark and forlorn in the stillness of the night. "Well, it has been a snug little house and sheltered mine and me for many years." Pausing, he sniffed again. "Something is telling me that I am not going to see it for a long, long time." Maybe never, he thought to himself.

Then he touched his heels to the bay's sides and rode away without looking back again. Eager for some excitement after being cooped up in the house, Haun trotted along beside the horse. Riding ahead, Tarlanc held the lighted candle lantern aloft, its weak, flickering light protected from the breeze by the glass sides of the metal box which held it. As the girls looked towards him, the candle cast patterns of light and shadows over the rider and his path.

By this time, around two hours ere midnight, the humpback moon was still in command of the night sky. Keeping close to the shadow of the trees bordering the fields behind his house, Tarlanc led them across the large meadow. As they neared the edge of the trees, he halted them. Before them, they had a clear view of the north-south road below the bridge.

"Come, lasses, let us be a little quick here and cross over the road. Never know when a patrol might be coming, and we do not want to meet any of those fellows. They have murderous quick tempers when they think that someone is up to something that he should not be." Tarlanc set his horse into a rapid trot, and soon they were across the road and into the safety of another patch of woods on the other side.

"Lasses, we are going to have to do a lot of riding tonight," Tarlanc spoke louder so that the girls, who were riding behind him, would be able to hear him over the distance and the sound of the horses. "I am trusting that the two of you are strong enough that the journey will not fatigue you too much, because the only resting that we can afford will be for the benefit of the horses." They had come to another stretch of wood, where Tarlanc halted his horse and held the lantern high above his head to get his bearings. He moved his mount forward into a walk. "Now we are going to stay off the roads and keep to the woods and fields. The next road we have to worry about crossing is the Great West Road, and I estimate there are over six leagues between us and it. We will have to be very careful when we get there. This will be the most dangerous part of our journey. There are far more patrols on that road than ever pass through Ivrenlaer."

"Are we going to try to reach the road tonight?" Elfhild asked, her eyes peering into the darkness to descry the dim shape of Tarlanc.

"Aye, lass, reach the road and pass over it. We will try to get into the Drúedain Forest, where I am planning to set up camp sometime before dawn. We are going to have to press the horses some, but they are young and healthy. I keep them in good condition, riding them several hours every day, or exercising them on the lines. Do not worry any, lass, they will not fail you."

The girls had almost dozed off in the saddle when at last Tarlanc halted in a small clearing where he planned to rest the horses. After a ride of over two hours, in which they had covered slightly more than two leagues, the girls' muscles were contracting balls of stinging pain. Wincing at a knotted up muscle in one of her calves, Elfhild yelped and rubbed the sore place gingerly. Leaning on her sister's shoulder for support, she hobbled over to a fallen tree and sat down.

Tarlanc loosened the saddle girths and walked the horses around the small clearing. They needed to be cooled down before he would allow them to drink from the small tributary which ran to the stream that flowed into his mill. "Lasses, while I finish caring for the horses, have yourselves a cooling draught of water and then refill the waterskin. Now," he chuckled as he stood by the bay's side and stroked his neck, "I am sure that before we left, you found the bread I baked this morning. If you were wise, you packed it where it can be reached easily. Go ahead and refresh yourselves. I will be with you as soon as I tend to the horses," he told them as he led the two mounts away.

"Dear sister, I know you are exhausted," Elffled rubbed her sister's shoulders sympathetically. "You sit here and rest, and I will be back soon with the waterskin and some bread and meat for you. It has been so long since supper, and we are both famished."

Tarlanc tied the horse to the branches of a leafless shrub, took the wineskin from his saddle, and ambled over to sit down beside the sisters. Placing the lantern before them, he tore off several pieces of dried meat and tossed them to Haun before eating the rest of the beef and washing it down with a swallow of water.

"Lasses, I know you are frightened and ill at ease. You might not feel so comfortable with an old fellow like me guiding you. You probably think I will get you and myself lost out here. You need not have any fear about that score. I have lived around here all my life and know every inch of these woods like I know the land around the mill. Why, when I was a young man, I once rode all the way to Rohan!" The old man had lowered his voice and was gazing reflectively into the flame of the candle.

"Tarlanc," Elfhild spoke up, "how many days journey is it back to the Mark?"

"That is difficult to say." Tarlanc scratched his chin as he thought about her question. "I would judge it to be about two hundred miles to the Mering Stream, the border between Gondor and Rohan. After that, it is another forty-five leagues to Edoras, but I do not plan to take you there. To tell you the truth, I do not like taking you back to Rohan at all. If you were not escaped slaves, I would insist that you stay here with me in Anórien. Perhaps you might not believe it, but my lot has not been too terrible under the invaders. However, since you are wanted and there are men on your trail, I know that is impossible."

"Oh, Tarlanc," Elffled placed her hand on his sleeve and asked him desperately, "do you really think you can get us home?"

He sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "Maybe, lass; if I avoid the road and keep to the foothills, there is a chance. What worries me, however, is what you will find when you get there."


	39. Chapter 38 - The Physician's Initial Observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Tushratta, private physician to Esarhaddon uHuzziya, looked down at the leather-bound journal spread open before him, dipped his reed pen in the ink pot, and began to write in his usual meticulous script:

***

_JOURNAL OF THE PHYSICIAN TUSHRATTA OF KHAND_  
Evening of 23 Simanu, the thirtieth year of the Reign of King Shapsusharr of Khand  
June 19, 3019, according to the Western reckoning

Observations on the Patient, Goldwyn, widow of Fasthelm of Grenefeld in the Eastfold of Rohan, who perished in the war

"The patient awakened several times during the early afternoon with an apparent return to sanity. However, later that day, once again she became extremely excited with her moods fluctuating wildly. In this highly agitated state, she attempted to use her female charms to seduce me. Of course, being a physician and well aware of her overwrought state, I declined such an invitation. An acceptance would have constituted flagrant exploitation of the patient, and as such would violate the healer's oaths of ethics. This refusal angered the lady, eliciting an extreme emotional outburst on her part which bordered on nervous hysteria. At last she calmed, returning to lucidity, but these wild shifts of mood had left her in an exhausted state. Drained of her physical strength, she collapsed, falling into a deep swoon. After remaining unconscious for approximately half an hour's time, she came to her senses and exhibited a much calmer state of mind.

"It was amazing how much better she looked after this brief rest. The ghastly pallor, along with the clamminess of skin, had disappeared, and her heart and breathing rate had returned to a steady rhythm. I was very encouraged to see that her face was once again suffused with a rosy vigor, such as I had not seen since before the unfortunate incident at the tomb. She seemed much more enthusiastic, even exuberant.

"Earlier I had prescribed a bath for her, both for the purpose of cleanliness and in the hopes that the salubrious waters might calm her nerves. When the bath arrived, she seemed in perfect control of her mental facilities and talked to me as calmly and rationally as any person would. Putting her hand upon my arm, she looked up at me with those beautiful turquoise eyes of hers and said in the most musical of tones that she was grateful for all I had done for her. I was greatly pleased at this development and entertained the hope that she might be making true progress.

"Her mind calmed and her body refreshed by the bath, the lady was provided with a gown from the wardrobe of one of the women whom the Shakh keeps for the entertainment of his men. Knowing the lady's gentle upbringing, I thought it best not to apprise her of the origin of her garments and cautioned Sang-mí never to reveal this information to her.

"As I write this, it is shortly before the evening meal, and, having some freedom from my other duties, I am taking this opportunity to record more of my observations in this journal. At this present moment, the Lady Goldwyn is still employed with her toilet. Sang-mí seems greatly relieved that the lady's emotional state has become more placid. The girl, one of the most willing and eager servants whom I have ever encountered, was absolutely delighted that she was allowed to groom and braid the lady's hair, and promised to arrange it in any style which the lady might favor. The patient herself did not seem adverse to the proposition, or at least she offered no objections. Her emotional state - I am glad to say - continues to be much calmer at this present moment. Whether that condition will continue throughout the rest of the evening is impossible for me to predict. I have learned that there is nothing predictable about this case, and I am increasingly impressed by the continuing feeling of bizarreness that surrounds the whole situation.

"I will conclude this entry with a note that applies only to a personal observation on my part: I found it amusing to see the look of incredulity upon Sang-mí's face when the lady insisted that the gown 'must be modest, appropriate for an honorable wife and mother, and not something which might be chosen by women of ill repute.' These reserved Northern women have such a penchant for respectability! She may be pleasantly surprised when she learns that we of the East and South are every bit as conservative in regard to the attire of our respectable women as are the barbarians of the North."

***

After placing his reed pen in its holder, Tushratta blotted the parchment with a soft cloth and handed the journal to Hibiz to put away. The physician considered spending some time consulting his worn volume on supernatural lore, but decided against this since the supper hour was too close, and he was hungry. He promised himself that, before he retired for the night, he would read more from the chapter which dealt with those unfortunates who are possessed by unclean spirits.

His eyes drifted over to the glowing brazier where Aziru was supervising the servant boys in the preparation of the evening meal. Smiling to himself, Tushratta watched his assistant fuss and fret about the cooking, often times getting in the way more than he was of any use. How the officious little man fumed when he became convinced that the boys had added too much salt or too little cumin into the pot. "I always thought that Aziru would have been far more in his element as Commander of the Kitchen than as a physician. But the loss to epicurean excellence is medicine's gain," he chuckled wryly to himself.

"Aban!" The sharp rebuke from Aziru gave the boy such a start that he dropped the small jar of turmeric into the cooking pot. The other two slave boys stood gaping in wide-eyed horror. "Foolish little toad! You were not listening to me! The recipe calls for pepper, not turmeric! You have just ruined the whole meal!"

Fearing the discipline but forced to face it, the slave boy dashed away and retrieved the switch which was hanging from a nearby tent pole. With the switch resting across his open palms, Aban knelt before Aziru. "Master, I beg you to punish me and drive out the spirit of stupidity that dwells in my mind!"

His face contorted in anger, Aziru took the switch from the boy's hands and walked behind him. After the boy had pulled the tunic up to his shoulders, Aziru lashed the slave's exposed back five times with the chastening rod. "Now ladle out a bowl of this disaster which you have created! Eat it all! Every last bit!" Azir's voice rose in a scream of rage and frustration. "After you have finished, take the whole pot of this disgusting mess far from the tent and dispose of it. If I were not such a merciful man, I would have you force fed the whole pot!"

"Thank you for whipping me, Master!" Pulling the tunic over his smarting shoulders, Aban rose to his feet and backed away. Although grateful that the penalty had not been harsher, he still bristled when Hibiz told him in sign language, "I never knew you liked your food so spicy." Shooting a glare at Hibiz, who was struggling to keep from laughing, Aban obediently ladled out a bowl of the bitter tasting bean and lentil soup, and with a sour face began drinking it.

Tushratta had watched all of these proceedings in silence. Though he was not an advocate of harsh punishments, he approved of a certain amount of correction when it was administered fairly and in moderation. How else could slaves be kept in check? Without this sort of control, some of them - those inclined to be rabble rousers and violent sorts - might be tempted to rebel, and slave rebellions were a nasty reality which everyone feared.

His bushy black eyebrows furrowing in consternation, Aziru approached Tushratta. "Master Physician, I apologize for that display. I do not know what has gotten into the boy lately, but he has been surly, disrespectful, and foul-tempered. Perhaps the switching will drive this insolence away from him. If he does not cease this audacious behavior, I am concerned that he will become unmanageable!" Aziru raised his voice, making certain that the boy could hear every word.

"We will talk of this matter later, Aziru. Sit down at the table and enjoy a goblet of wine with me while the servants finish preparing the meal." Tushratta spoke soothingly, trying to calm his quick-tempered assistant, but he could see that the little man's bright brown eyes were still angry. "Perhaps we could reflect together upon this unusual case which we are now studying."

"But the meal has been ruined!" Aziru protested, refusing to drop the matter.

"Aziru, you always cook far too much for my simple tastes!" Tushratta insisted. "I will be content with whatever you prepare."

"Master Physician, all I can offer you is a side dish of chickpeas, onions, cloves, curry, ginger and a few other ingredients, all served over couscous. If you are satisfied with such a modest dish, I suppose I will have to be content," Aziru muttered, his gloomy expression announcing that he was far from happy.

"More than satisfied!" Tushratta assured him good-naturedly. "You have provided quite well for my comfort, Aziru." He looked at the little man, who kept glancing over at the servant boys, watching for any to make the slightest mistake. "In any event, you are not required to cook as part of your employment. I would do quite well with eating from the common pot available to all in the caravan. The head cook prepares meals which are quite adequate."

"Master Physician," Aziru arched his eyebrows and glowered at him as though he had been betrayed, "I despise that man! Man? Did I call him a man?" he railed angrily, his words coming in a harsh rush. "He has not had the apparatus of a man since he was a boy! He is a fat, pompous fool, foul tempered and foul mouthed, a miscreant and lying scoundrel! I swear that I would rather starve than eat his cooking!"

"All that, Aziru?" Tushratta raised a brow. "I could never understand what he did to you to bring about such extreme animosity, but we can leave that discussion for another time... I would much prefer to enjoy my meal in peace."

"Certainly, Master Physician. I labor constantly to see that your surroundings are always tranquil. Ah, I see that the servants have almost finished with the supper. Let me go and make certain that none of them do any more damage." His feelings still ruffled, Aziru bowed stiffly and then returned to his watchful overseeing of the cooking.

***

In spite of the inauspicious preliminaries to the meal, Tushratta was looking forward to it. He seldom had guests, and there was only Aziru to share his quiet meals. Tonight he was having a guest, the Lady Goldwyn, and he could not deny his excitement at that prospect.

A solitary man given to little talk except when it was absolutely necessary, the master physician preferred to read, meditate, or play chess when he was not treating patients. The energetic, ferret-like Aziru was the physician's opposite, and he always had a comment to make upon everything, even though the doctor often considered his chatter inconsequential.

Both men enjoyed playing chess. Aziru was an excellent player, and his games were always challenging. Tense and aggressive, the little man often took a perverse delight in baiting his superior into playing a game with him. While Tushratta enjoyed a spirited game, he often grew weary of the constant crowing and boasting by his assistant whenever he proved to be the victor.

There was a slight movement by the curtain to the inner chamber, and a smiling Sang-mí stepped out to hold the arras open for Goldwyn. Bowing to the physician, the serving girl quickly excused herself to attend to a hungry Nib. Tushratta rose to his feet. "Come sit down across from me, my lady. You look greatly rested and absolutely radiant tonight!"

It was true. Goldwyn had gained much from both her rest and her bath. Her body had been filthy after her desperate flight through Osgiliath and her dreadful sojourn within the walls of the tomb. The bath water had been warm and soothing, fragrant with many scents which Goldwyn could not recognize. Sang-mí had offered to massage away the pains and aches from her muscles and apply sweet smelling oil to her body, but Goldwyn had declined, feeling it somehow improper. The servant girl had combed her hair and worked the many snarls and tangles from her tresses and then braided them in the Northern fashion. Sang-mí had offered her a choice of gowns from the wardrobes of Esarhaddon's common women, but Goldwyn had rejected all but one as being "immodest, improper, or downright lewd."

The attire which the Northern woman chose had been contributed by Kishi, who had originally come from a far land east of Khand. Kishi had been quite willing to part with the garments, which she described as "just old rags which I had long cast aside." Though Kishi had disparaged the clothing, the whole costume was of fine quality, little worn, and fashioned of costly material. While Goldwyn detested anything which came from the "vile East," she realized that the rich material and excellent craftsmanship of the well-cut garments flattered her figure, making her think that it must have been crafted for a high-ranking lady.

The customs of the East seemed strange to Goldwyn, for there the women dressed in breeches like men, though no man would ever wear breeches with such fine embellishments. Goldwyn was clad in a close fitting white tunic which fell a little past her knees. The garment had long, narrow sleeves and gold embroidery at the modest round neckline and around the forearms and wrists. She wore loose yellow trousers which were drawn close about her ankles by bands of brocaded ribbon. Slung low about her hips was a narrow blue sash which was knotted at the middle and hung down to the hem of the tunic. On her feet were backless white satin slippers woven with gold threads, and on her head was a small golden cap. A translucent cream colored scarf was fastened to the sides of the cap, and the slight band draped down over her breastbone.

At least the garments were not like that "shameful dress which was designed to provoke men's lusts" that Esarhaddon had forced her to wear that embarrassing night when she had dined with him. Perhaps she should be grateful to the unimposing physician for not requiring her to wear a similar revealing style, but she was still distrustful of him.

"Radiant?" Goldwyn queried as she lifted a glass of water to her lips. "I am not some servant girl who is impressed by flattering words."

"Madame, my comments were not shallow talk designed to flatter you. You recently underwent a grueling experience which had a profound effect upon your health, but now you seem to be recovering. I am merely stating that you appear well rested and greatly improved... and very lovely," Tushratta added, wondering if he had made a mistake to reveal so much.

"The meal is served," Aziru triumphantly announced as he stood back to watch the three servant boys place the heavily laden platters filled with spicy vegetables over couscous, loaves of flat bread, cheeses, pickled vegetables, and dried fruits upon the table. Smiling in self-approval, he sat down beside Tushratta, who took the opportunity to introduce him to an unimpressed Goldwyn. The physician and the lady immediately fell into an uneasy silence, and had it not been for Aziru's almost constant stream of banalities, the meal would have been eaten without a word being spoken. When the diners had finished eating, the boys cleansed and dried their hands with rosewater. Their kitchen duties finished, Hibiz moved to guard the entrance to the tent while Aban and Naqi went to their sleeping mats under Tushratta's wain.

After the long silence, Goldwyn at last spoke up. "How many slaves do you own, Tushratta?"

"Three," he answered, wondering where she was going with this line of questioning. "The boys you saw tonight - Aban, Hibiz, and Naqi."

"I have three sons, you know." Her flat statement was tossed out like a challenge, which slid off Tushratta's emotional armor like oil off metal.

"Madame, if you think to engage me in a debate on the evils of slavery, I will first say this to you. Those boys were not born into slavery. Their fathers sold them when they were small children because they did not have the means to provide for them. Slavery is a reality in lands where poverty and starvation are everyday facts of life. The other choice was to take them into the wasteland away from their village and leave them there for wild animals to eat. Their sires could have simply killed them for that matter. In their land, the father has the right of life and death over his children. Which is more merciful? Death or slavery?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot answer that. I am a doctor, not a philosopher."

"Oh," Goldwyn replied, outraged at the heartless barbarism. "Such cruelties are unknown to the people of my land!"

"I think there you are incorrect, Madame." His face an expression of bland indifference, Tushratta tapped his fingers together. "There are many kinds of cruelties. I have heard it is custom among your people to make vanquished foes work out a term of indenture to pay for their 'war indemnities.' I do not disagree with this policy. It is far more merciful than simply killing them."

"They are rightfully deserving of any punishment that is inflicted upon them. They, not we, were the invader!" Blazing with anger, her blue eyes met the doctor's calm ones. Whatever the arguments these people used, she could never accept slavery. An oppressive silence once again settled over the table.

Uncomfortable with the deafening quiet, Aziru looked from Tushratta to Goldwyn. Rubbing his thick nose, he stretched and then cleared his throat. "I do not know about the lady, but I always enjoy wine after meals. Tonight I have selected as my vintage of choice a light Dorwinion that is neither too sweet nor too tart, but is a perfect compromise between the two. Tushratta," he turned to the doctor, "I know you greatly prefer that lofty ambrosia which is so loved in our native land, 'Goddess of the Vineyard,' the rich, red wine which makes you believe that you are basking in the light of the gods after only one drink! However, if you accept my recommendation, I am certain that you will be pleased."

"Aziru, we both must be getting old." Tushratta looked to Aziru and smiled. "Every night, we have the same discussion about wine. We sound like old graybeards!"

Aziru rose to his feet, belching loudly and thumping his hefty paunch to drive out the excess air. "Flatulence," he explained. "I am often troubled with the ailment after meals, but wine settles my stomach. I always recommend it for both health and happiness. Now, my dear doctor and my gentle lady, perhaps the two of you would prefer tea or coffee... whichever is your choice, I will be more than willing to prepare it, always your obedient servant." Smiling, he bowed with a flourish.

"No, I will take wine," Goldwyn replied quietly.

"Aziru, wine, of course," the physician told him. "An old dog always returns to his favorite bone."

"Quite true, quite true," Aziru rambled as he poured wine for the three of them.

"Now, Madame, may we talk some more... over wine... for the sake of health, of course, and also happiness?" Tushratta looked into Goldwyn's eyes. Though he maintained his air of detachment, he had never seen eyes such a captivating shade of blue.

Before she could answer, Aziru turned to the doctor and grinned. "I do not suppose I could persuade you to engage in another one of our common habits - a game of chess after supper." Although he knew that it was rude to interrupt, he did not want to listen to another of the lady's vehement barrages against the East and South.

"No, not tonight," Tushratta replied. "After I finish this wine, I need to be getting back to my work. There are far greater matters of importance on my mind than chess."

"Coward," Aziru chortled triumphantly. "Always some excuse to get out of the indignity of being defeated by me. Then, Master Physician, since you decline once again on the grounds of 'greater importance,' I believe I will take my wine and retire to my sleeping mat. May you both have a pleasant evening." Rising to his feet, he bowed and started to walk away, but turned to glance back at Tushratta. "If you should work up enough courage to challenge me later..."

"No, I will not be dissuaded," Tushratta chuckled.

"If you change your mind..."

"Go to bed, Aziru!"

"Aye... coward! Aziru smirked, lifted up his goblet in mock salute, and hastily made his exit.

Turning back to Goldwyn, all signs of merriment vanished from the doctor's face, his brown eyes growing solemn. "My lady, might we now talk? There are some serious matters which I would like to discuss with you. And if you have no objections, might I record any relevant information in my journal?"

"Is this an interrogation?" she asked suspiciously, instantly on guard. "Was the whole purpose of the evening merely to regale me with food and wine in an attempt to gain my confidence? If you think that you can wheedle information from me on where you might find my sons, you can forget it! Granted, wining and dining me is a new tactic. I can at least say upon your behalf that you have not pawed all over me like an animal as did your master. Perhaps you plan that later." Her eyes issued him a bold challenge. "But you might as well realize now - even if I knew where they were, I would never tell you heathen bastards!"

"Madame," he looked her squarely in the eye, "let us understand one another. I consider your sons lost both to Shakh Esarhaddon and to you. Almost two days have passed and they have not been found. They had too great a start upon the trackers, and it is my belief that they will never be found."

"Then what do you want with me, physician? What knowledge could I possess which would possibly be of any interest to you?" She studied the physician's face, trying to fathom what he really wanted from her.

"Madame, I have only one question for you, and rest assured it has nothing to do with your sons. I ask it only in the attempt to gain scientific knowledge..." He paused. "Was there some reason why you called out the name of your husband, Fasthelm, when you were in the tomb? Surely you know he is dead."

She looked at him as though he had asked the most ridiculous question possible. "Because he was there," she murmured softly, her eyes taking on that disarming quality of looking right through him, as though they were staring trance-like into nothingness. "You could not kill him!"

"Damn! I am losing her again!" Tushratta realized with a sense of panic. "If I do not pull her mind back to reality some way, she will slip into another mental seizure. It is at these moments that the physician must be very cautious and avoid alienating the patient at all costs. Every effort must be expended in the attempt to gain her trust, and once gaining it, expanding upon it until she at last feels she can confide in me."

"Physician, you do not believe me, do you?" she demanded.

"Madame, I believe that, owing to your extreme emotional and physical exhaustion, you thought that you saw your husband."

"It was Fasthelm. Make no mistake about it, Physician, it was Fasthelm," she asserted with finality, the look in her eyes declaring that nothing could persuade her otherwise.

"The poor woman is delusional, and cannot be held responsible for anything which she might do or say. She has been driven beyond sanity by conditions over which she has no control. Poor creature!" There was no other way that he could explain the strange chain of events, Tushratta thought bleakly, but he kept his words to himself. He must attempt to maintain his calm demeanor. As he looked at her, his face was a mask of sympathetic concern. Long ago he had trained himself to remain aloof from his patients, never betraying his own emotions and always guarding his feelings.

"I was wrong in my earlier evaluation of her emotional malaise. Previously I had considered her depression temporary, brought on by the loss of her sons, combined with her mental and physical exhaustion. I had thought that she was a much stronger woman, but I now fear I was mistaken." He must draw her out and enter more deeply into her mind before he could help her. How could he possibly do this? Damn his shortsighted stupidity for never studying the deeper arts of the shaman!

"Did you see your husband, my lady, or only hear him?" He lowered his voice to what he considered a soothing, unalarming tone.

"Physician, I both saw and heard him, but your men threatened my husband and drove him away! How could you be so wicked as to separate us when we had only just reunited?" Her voice cracked with sorrow and she looked at Tushratta with an expression so pitiful that he could not help but be touched. "My husband, physician!" Her voice was pleading. "You do not understand! He has returned to me from the halls of the dead!"

"She is mad, totally mad!" He hated to admit it to himself. "I must humor her and not disturb her any more." How she looked like a child, her lower lip trembling and her eyes filled with anguish! He longed to do something to help her, something more than simply plying her with more drugs.

"He cannot do that, Madam. Your husband is dead," Tushratta told her as gently as possible.

Bursting out into tears, Goldwyn flung her hands to her face and sobbed. "I love him so much, my darling Fasthelm, and I desperately need him!"

"There, there, my lady," Tushratta offered his usual sympathetic encouragement. "It will be all right." He moved to sit by her side, which only caused her to cry all the more fiercely. How lovely she was, even when she was a babbling madwoman! She had all of his sympathy, every last bit of it. There was nothing he would rather do than take her into his arms, hold her closely to him and console her as best he could. Professional decorum prevented that, however, and so he merely patted her shoulder solicitously and offered her his monogrammed linen handkerchief to use to dab her tear-swollen eyes.


	40. Chapter 39 - The Draugr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

At dusk the boys resumed the journey across the broad, sweeping valley of the Anduin at a pace which was brisk enough to satisfy even the demanding Fródwine. An hour and a half of marching brought them within half a league of the Great West Road. The elder brother was determined to traverse the road by dawn and then shelter in the Grey Wood until evening. Realizing, though, that this crossing was surely as dangerous as had been the initial escape - or perhaps even more so - Fródwine dreaded the attempt. Predominant in his mind was the fear that once they had begun to cross the road, they would be surprised by a company of orcs marching at the double quick to join the northern army. With the amazing eyesight that the monsters possessed, the boys would be quickly spotted and just as quickly recaptured.

Frightened at the approach of darkness, Fritha's thoughts kept returning to the terrified, anguished screams of the orcs as the trees had dragged them under the ground. Even Oakheart, who had been kind to him, seemed ominous in retrospect. What if they should meet other trees who were not so generous as the old oak? Suddenly everything was dark and scary, and he saw monsters in the shadows and fell spirits in the forest. He wished they were all back at home, and Mother was comforting him.

Fritha nervously tugged at Fródwine's sleeve, and the older boy slowed his pace. "What is it, Fritha?" he asked tersely. "It is not time to eat yet, but if you are thirsty, there is a small stream nearby. As a matter of fact, if I recall correctly from the journey down, the water goes under the road through a culvert. I suppose if worse comes to worse, we could make our way, not over the road, but under it," he mused out loud.

"I am not thirsty," Fritha explained, "but I feel gloomy, like all the world is ending, or has ended, and there is nothing left but ghosts! I want to go back, Fródwine. I want to go back! I want Mother!" Sobbing, he wrapped his hand around Fródwine's sleeve, twisting and clenching the cloth as he cried.

Pulling his arm away with a brisk jerk, Fródwine freed his sleeve and turned around to face his brother. "Fritha, you are sleepy. That is what is wrong with you!" He glanced around at Frumgár for confirmation. "He is sleepy, is he not?"

Halting, Frumgár crossed his arms over his chest and smiled good-naturedly at his brothers. "Aye, he certainly is! I recognize all the signs. First, his eyelids become so heavy that he can no longer hold them up, and then he begins to whine and complain. Oh, and when he starts crying and stomping his foot, his face gets all red and puckered up. He squeezes his eyelids together, and he is like a big, grouchy bear when it is stirred out of its den too early in the spring! Ugliest thing I ever saw in my life when he is that way! The best thing then is to tuck him into bed; maybe tell him a story, if you have a mind to do that."

"I am not sleepy, and I do not look like a bear! Stop picking on me, Frumgár! You are getting to be a bully, just like--" Fritha hesitated, cutting his comments short as Fródwine scowled at him.

"--Like me," Fródwine offered. "I will not argue this matter. I think it is time I carried you on my back a while, Fritha, so climb on board." Fródwine crouched down, allowing Fritha to climb upon his back. Fritha hugged him around the neck while Fródwine clasped him under the thighs.

"Tell me a story, Frumgár," Fritha begged, his voice sleepy.

"What kind of story?"

"A ghost story, of course! They are the best kind!"

"That is just plain silly, Fritha! You said not five minutes ago that you thought that the world had ended and there was nothing around but ghosts. Besides, you are terrified of them," Frumgár replied, mild surprise on his face.

"Because the ones you tell about are the spirits of our ancestors, who watch over us. Please, Frumgár, please!" he replied in his sweetest voice, which was calculated to guarantee getting his own way. Although Frumgár could not see Fritha's face clearly because it was in the shadows, he was certain that Fritha was smiling in that way he had which showed his dimples to the best advantage. That expression had always gotten quick attention from their mother, but it seldom achieved the desired purpose with either Fródwine or Frumgár.

As Fródwine tramped on with Fritha upon his back, Frumgár stepped up beside them. Coughing, he cleared his throat and announced in his most formal tone of voice, "I tell you now...

**THE TALE OF THE DRAUGR**

"Once many years ago, a staunch and doughty rider of the Mark was returning late one night from a wedding feast. The man had consumed far too many a tankard of ale at the joyous occasion, and was quite in his cups at the ending of the meal. As he rode his destrier back towards his home, he was filled with a sudden yearning to visit once again with his old sword companion, who was long dead. Being not too far from the barrowfield where his comrade was entombed, he turned his horse from its intended path and rode forward at a goodly clip, desiring to meet with him as quickly as possible.

"Soon arriving at the base of the mound, the rider called out jovially, certainly not meaning any offense, but only good will, 'My brother, sleep you in peace or have you turned to wakefulness?' He waited a while amid the field of dark mounds where the dead slept. Not expecting an answer, he was surprised when he heard far back in the mound a sigh, tender and gentle, no louder than that which a babe might make when it has just suckled and is full at its mother's breast.

"Though the moan from the tomb was mild in nature, it had a dire effect upon his mount, for the creature rose upon its back legs and stabbed at the sky with its front hooves. Though shaking, the horse came back solidly to the earth on all four hooves, and looked around questioningly. Another moan came from the tomb, this one even worse than the first. TWhinnying in terror, the horse skittered sideways, arching its back and going into a fit of bucking. The beleaguered man struggled to rein the beast under control and was successful until his horse reared suddenly once again. The poor fellow, not expecting such unruly behavior from his usually placid steed, went plunging backwards over the horse's haunches and came to an unpleasant halt upon the hard, cold ground. With a high kick of its hind legs, the horse gave a wild shriek and galloped, bucking and kicking, across the barrowfield until it had disappeared out of sight.

"Rising unsteadily to his feet, the man rubbed his sore backside and limped painfully back to the stone that sealed the barrow. Uncertain if he had heard anything at all other than the whisper of the wind and the neighing of his horse, the fellow cupped his hand to his ear and called questioningly, 'Heremod One-eye? Is that you, my cup companion and brother, or do I speak to another?'

"'Stigand the Sot, my bosom companion and fellow warrior, it is none other than I, Heremod One-eye, to whom you speak!' came a voice from deep within the barrow.

"Blinking his bleary eyes, Stigand was far more amazed and in awe than he was embarrassed. The drunkard gave voice to his thoughts and cried out. 'My old friend, Heremod One-eye, beloved kinsman, I was out riding lately from a wedding, and a great melancholy fell upon me when I thought of bygone days when we went carousing together.' A tear sprang to Stigand's eye and he clamped his hand over his heart. 'I bring you a present, mine own flask, filled with mead, pure and sweet, mixed with honey. I leave it here by the door so that when you are athirst, you may have succor.'

"Reverently, Stigand the Sot unstrapped the flask from about his belt and placed it by the door to the barrow. Then making his farewells, he turned to leave and go chase down his mount, which had fled from the barrow in terror, when to his ears came the sound as of a battle cry at the dawning of a day of war. In fear and wonder, he turned and faced his eyes once again towards the burial mound.

"Coming through the door, filling its dimensions, stalked a giant draugr, bloated, huge and repulsive, blue in color, with a glow and a stink that fouled the air of the night with its dank discomfort. Still clad in his grave clothes - helm with horse tail bedecked streamer and mail shirt which gleamed and glimmered with the ghost light - the phantom bore spear in hand. Upon this he leaned as he gazed upon Stigand with cold, white dead eyes.

"The long locks upon Stigand's head felt as though they had grown to be a high standing forest. His hair stood on end, jutting out about his head. From his crown to his trembling feet, he felt his skin pimpled in cold chills.

"'Why, Heremod, can it be you, grown to be a corpse of gigantic proportions? Why do you appear to me in such an unbeauteous form, I who have done naught to you, but always have come in friendship?' Terrified and certain that death must be upon him, Stigand looked at the fiend, his eyes gaping from their sockets.

"'I have been athirst these past two years, and you have come nowhere near this my howe! Why have you come so late bearing me draught of mead? Long has it been since I drank the brew left with me when I was put in this forlorn place, left alone, there to mourn the loss of life, my friends and kinsmen. Never in that time have you or any other returned to offer food or drink to satisfy and appease my hunger and thirst! Now you must answer for your tardiness, for I intend to reap my vengeance! Draw your sword!'

"Up to this moment, Stigand's large feet had been as though they were buried up to the shanks in the cold ground. At the words, 'Draw your sword!' he felt the strength returning to his limbs. Then pulling his sword from its sheath, he prepared to defend himself from the harsh and unforgiving spectre who faced him.

"With a ghoulish laugh, Heremod hurled his spear at Stigand, who was now almost as pale and ashen as his opponent. Twisting his shoulder to the right, he evaded the spear which missed him by near inches. Then Stigand rushed in upon Heremod, thrusting his sword at the wight's exposed neck, but the ghoul was far too quick for him and was speedily out of his way. Laughing his ghoulish, mocking laugh, the draugr slashed downward towards Stigand's thigh, trying for the vital artery in the leg. To Stigand's good fortune, the blow had been miscast, and though it drew blood, it was not a killing strike. Up came Stigand's own true blade and met the wight's steel. There was a grating of metal upon metal as man matched strength against the undead as they thrust and parried.

"Stigand was a mighty and strong man and strove against his opponent from the grave with all of his force and will. Had it been that his opponent was a mortal, Stigand perhaps could have bested him, but the creature's strength was far beyond that of a man. Though they had been friends in life, Heremod was now possessed with an unquenchable and malignant passion of hate and malice against the living, for he envied the life which they still held.

"They fought together through the night, with neither one gaining the better of the other. Not one blow that Stigand wielded drew blood from the fiend, for the flow had long been blackened and stilled in his veins. Stigand, though, felt the sharp pain of one wound after another, until the blood sopped out of his face, arms and shoulders, chest and legs. Then, at last as his strength failed him, his sword blade was struck by the fell spirit. The wight's weapon slid down Stigand's blade until it met the pommel, sending up showers of sparks. The ghoul laughed when Stigand's blade dropped from his hand, and Stigand knew that the hour of his death had surely arrived.

"The spirit, though, did not press the advantage and instead sheathed his own sword. Then, his dead eyes glowing, he lay hold upon Stigand, wrapping his huge bloated arms about his chest. Stigand was crushed in a lock of supernatural strength which promised to squeeze his heart from his chest. His face turning dark with strain, his tongue extruding from his mouth, Stigand gasped as the breath was pushed from his body. He felt dark shades of death rushing upon him. When Stigand heard a rib break in his chest as the draugr increased the pressure, he abandoned all struggle, for there was no strength left in him. Sagging upon the shade's chest, he was nigh unto relinquishing his hold upon life and was certain that he would soon join his old sword companion and once friend. Suddenly, he felt such a pain tearing through his right ear that he was driven at the point of death to renew his struggles, for the wight had bitten clean through his ear, tearing it off, and was in the process of devouring it.

"As the blood streamed from his mangled flesh, Stigand felt the fetid breath blow cold upon his cheek. Sharp teeth fastened themselves upon his other ear, and he was sure that the wight meant to consume him alive..."

Frumgár paused and waited for Fritha's reaction. All the time that the little boy had been listening to the story, his arms had been wrapped tightly about his elder brother's neck. He had become increasingly more fretful as Frumgár had related the tensest parts of the tale, until he felt like covering up his ears with his hands or screaming and begging his brother to stop. However, Fritha desperately wanted to hear the end of the story and felt that he would never know any peace if he did not hear it.

"Frumgár! Frumgár!" the boy exclaimed excitedly. "Why did you stop? What happened? What happened? I do not want the story to end this way, with poor Stigand the Sot half dead and his ears chewed off his head!"

"Well, little brother, how do you know that was not the end of the story and there is no more? Perhaps the draugr ate the rest of him, even the bones," Frumgár held out, enjoying teasing his brother.

"Oh, no, that cannot be the end, for that would be a horrid story! Tell me more! Tell me more!" Far too excited to bear the suspense, Fritha drummed his legs frantically against his Fródwine's thighs.

"Fritha, you are choking me! If you get much more scared, you will piss yourself and drench us both! I will put you down if you do not stop this nonsense!" Fródwine protested crossly. "Frumgár, you should not tell him such stories that chill him to the very marrow!"

"I am sorry, Fródwine, I will stop holding you so tightly," the little boy apologized. "Do not be angry with me! ...Now, Frumgár, resume the story!" he pled desperately.

Frumgár looked at Fritha as though he were in deep deliberation upon continuing the story. "Wellll," he stretched out the word, "there is a little bit of the tale left..."

"Tell it! Tell it" Fritha almost shouted.

"All right, little brother...

"Bested by the pain from his severed ears and overcome with fright and terror, Stigand fainted dead away and knew nothing for hours. When at last he awoke and came to himself, he found that he was still at the door to the barrow, cold to the marrow and almost chilled to the death, but at least alive after his harrowing experience. Much to his dismay, the bloated wight sat across from him, cleaning his teeth with a sliver of wood.

"'When next you come avisiting my stone bed while I am resting my head upon my cold pillow,' spoke the draugr, 'bring with you more of the mead mixed with honey! The mead you brought was hardly enough to wash down your ears, and those were tough and gristly and had little substance about them! You will fetch to me such food, meat and such victuals that I found pleasing when I walked this earth. Whilst my appetite was great in life for all good things to eat and drink, it is even greater in death.' With that, the wight threw back his hideous head and laughed, then lumbered back into his barrow before the sun rose."

Delightfully frightened, Fritha squirmed as he clapped his hands in front of Fródwine's face. "That was a wonderful story!" he exclaimed happily. Fródwine turned his head back and, scowling, he released his arms from about Fritha's legs. Disappointed, the little boy slid to the ground and took Frumgár's outreached hand.

"Are you still frightened, Fritha?" Frumgár asked, looking down at him.

"Not really. I never was," Fritha beamed proudly as he tried to match his pace to that of his older brother. When he failed, Frumgár slowed down, for his brother's short legs could never keep up with him.

"There is a little more, Fritha, that I have not yet told, but perhaps you are no longer interested." Frumgár let his voice trail off.

"More?" Fritha exclaimed in a hushed voice and held Frumgár's hand tighter. "I want to hear it, but I will not listen if you tell me that the draugr came back and ate the rest of poor Stigand!"

"Only a little more, Fritha, and then the tale will be told."

"What, then? You must tell me!"

"Stigand trudged away from the barrowfields with a long journey back to his home ahead of him, for he did not want to spend another second among the haunted howes. During the safety of the day's light, he returned on a borrowed mount to the barrowfield once again in search of his horse. Far from the barrowfield he found the bones of the poor beast, stretched out cold and dead upon the ground, eaten, perhaps by wolves. Though Stigand swore that the draugr had chased the animal until it had run itself to death, many say that Stigand's tale is only the ramblings of a drunkard. And so my story ends," Frumgár concluded as he felt Fritha's hand trembling in his.

"Look now what you have done," Fródwine growled in accusation. "The lad is shaking in fear! There will be no more stories tonight!"

"No, no," Fritha protested through chattering teeth. "Tell me another one!"

"Frumgár, you will do no such thing," Fródwine hissed as he came to a halt and pointed ahead of them. "There before us lies the Road!"


	41. Chapter 40 - Crossing the Great Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

The humpbacked orb of a waxing gibbous moon cast down its beams upon the road, bathing the darkened countryside in shades of deep blue and silver. Crouching at the edge of the woods, the boys listened for the sound of enemies. A wide stretch of open land lay between them and the Great West Road. Beyond the highway to the west was another span of cleared ground, dotted here and there by small brakes of trees. During the days of Gondor's affluence, the land along both sides of the road had been kept clear so that brigands would have few places to lie in wait to ambush travelers, but now brush and small trees had begun to take root. Tightly clutching the hands of both his brothers, Fritha looked through the trees at the Great West Road lying before them and waited fretfully for Fródwine to order them across.

Bringing his forefinger to his lips, Fródwine whispered as his eyes roamed up and down the road, "Brothers, as quiet as a barrow. It seems for a change that we might be in luck. We have come at last to the Great West Road!" he pronounced expansively, the pride of what he considered his singular accomplishment reflecting in his voice. "As soon as we leave the cover of these woods, we make our way over the cleared ground and then across the road. Let us make a run for it and have it behind us! Hold tightly onto our hands, Fritha!" Fródwine broke into a run, leading his brothers out of the trees.

"You are going too fast for me!" Fritha puffed as his short legs struggled to match his brothers' quicker speed. They slowed down to accommodate him and were halfway through the cleared field when Fródwine suddenly halted.

"Stop!" came Fródwine's grated whisper. "There is something coming up the road, heading north!"

Floating upon the clear evening air came the grunting cadence of orcs and the sound of the marching of many feet. The pale, flickering light of torches bobbed up and down as the host moved towards them. The boys were caught in the open with no protection from the eyes of the enemy's troops, and there was no time to run back to the trees for shelter. Fródwine's gaze fell upon the stream which they had been following, and, tracing the path of the water with his eyes, he saw the culvert which he had noticed earlier. A broad clay pipe ran under the road, its opening a circle of black against the darkness.

Fritha's small fingers interlaced with those of his brothers, and he squeezed their hands tightly, his fingernails digging painfully into their palms. "They are coming to get us, Fródwine!" he whimpered, a wild look in his blue eyes. He had a sudden urge to suck his thumb.

"Down the steam bank, brothers!" Fródwine whispered urgently. He turned so quickly that Fritha was spun to the side, dislodging Frumgár's grip from his. Fródwine plunged down the steep descent, his little brother stumbling along behind him. Fritha could barely keep his feet under him as they slid, slipped and plunged to the edge of the water. Behind them they heard a grunt and heavy thud as Frumgár's feet shot out from beneath him. Taking a nasty tumble, he slid on his backside, not stopping until he had almost reached the edge of the water.

"We will hide in the culvert until the column has passed." Fródwine's eyebrows puckered in consternation as he looked at the water. "Unless we want to slog around in soaked clothes, we are going to have to take them off."

"I am going to get cold!" Fritha wailed, shuddering as he thought of wading into the dark water.

"Fródwine, I do not know about this," Frumgár protested, gingerly rubbing his sore bottom. "We do not even know how deep the water is! Is there not some other way?"

"There is no other way, Frumgár, unless we want to wait here and let the orcs catch us. Anyway, I do not think that the water will be too deep, but it might be over Fritha's head. We do not want any more unpleasant surprises, so let me check the depth." Pulling off his shoes and clothing, Fródwine waded out into the chilly stream and found that the water came above his waist. "So I was correct," he muttered as he turned towards the bank. "Frumgár, you will be in charge of keeping our belongings dry while I carry Fritha." He turned to his little brother. "Now, Fritha, take off your shoes and roll up the legs of your breeches. I am taking you for another piggy-back ride!"

"I do not like this, Fródwine!" Fritha was on the verge of tears.

"I suppose we could always leave you." Fródwine started wading out into the water again.

"No, no! Wait for me!"

Standing on the bank, Fritha crawled onto his brother's back, his teeth chattering with fear. As he looked down, he was mesmerized by the dark water and the swift current, and the undulating reflection of the moon. With his little brother perched on his back, Fródwine eased forward into the deeper water. Frumgár, the pack raised above his head, gingerly tested the water with his foot and found that it was chilly, but not unbearable. With a resigned groan, he waded out into the water.

As they stayed in the shadows of the bank, the boys kept their gaze directed to the long line of approaching soldiers. Slowly the torches grew brighter as the orcs drew closer. Had the enemies seen them? Just as the boys' heads ducked under the entrance of the dark tunnel, the column bore down upon the bridge. The brothers scarcely breathed as they listened to the staccato pounding of iron-shod boots tramping over their heads.

Crossing the culvert, the sergeant, commander of a hundred, moved to the edge of the road and watched as the rest of his men marched across the culvert. Then when the last man had crossed to the other side, the officer gave the command to halt.

"What are they doing? What are they doing, Fródwine?" Frumgár craned his neck as he whispered anxiously. "Do you think they are going to camp here for the rest of the night?"

"I hope not. Perhaps their sojourn will be brief, and they will soon be on their way. I can hear them lumbering about up on the bank..." Fródwine paused to listen. "Probably their officers will send a work detail down to the stream to fill their waterskins before they move out. Keep your voices low, for there is an echo in here, and they might hear us. Quickly, now, Frumgár, follow me to the opposite end of the culvert. Our position will not be so easy to spy there."

The lower end of the clay tile was open, and the water flowed through it into a large pool at the base of the tile. The upstream end, though, had been partially blocked by a jam of logs, brush and sticks which had washed there during the recent storms. The flow of the current rushed in through the narrow channel and rolled and rippled through the pipe until it cascaded down a small waterfall at the end. In any other situation, the noise of the splashing would have been cheering, but in the dark, cold tunnel, it had an ominous ring. Fródwine did not like the place in the least. Should the orcs discover the boys, the barricade at the upper end would effectively cage them in a trap.

Five of the brutes had left the main group and were making their way to the small pool which lay at the end of the tile. Strong-bodied and swaggering, they were headed to the northern fields of war, certain that the conflict would be won long before they ever got there. Overly confident, they were not quite so alert as they normally would have been. Letting down their guard, they rough-housed and cuffed each other about the heads and shoulders. A sudden snarl from one of them warned his fellow that his playful shove had been a little too enthusiastic. After a few muttered threats and a vague promise that if hands were not kept to themselves, they would be broken, the orcs set about fetching water.

Once at the stream, the orcs knelt down and filled their water flasks. One of them, still mumbling to himself, squatted at the edge of the small pool and held his container under the flow, the water bubbling and gurgling as it rushed into the waterskin. The moonlight played over his helm and mail and cast him into a metal statue in profile. Fródwine tried to compress his body and make it appear smaller, for he was certain that the creature had sighted through the tunnel and spotted him. He determined that if the monster had seen him, that he would just stare back, showing the creature no fear in his eyes. A coarse remark from his comrades distracted the orc, and he turned his head away to look at them and laugh.

After some ribald laughter, snorts and grunts, the orc rejoined his fellows. Then he and one of his comrades walked a short distance down the stream. There, amidst much guffawing, they hauled out their apparatuses, and in a contest of marksmanship, they sent arcing sprays into the rippling waters, aiming for small sticks and twigs that floated on the current.

"The Dark Lord's evil spreads," Fródwine remarked dryly.

***

After the orcs had finished their business at the stream and returned to the top of the bank, the boys thanked their good fortune that they had escaped peril so easily. Not without discomfort, though - the long time in the cool waters was misery for the two elder brothers. They felt chilled to the bone, their skin covered with goose bumps. Peering out from their vantage-point under the bridge, the boys could see the orange glow of bonfires reflected upon the broad stream. While the brothers had to continue their miserable sojourn in their watery hiding place, the orcs were comfortable, dry and partaking of their provisions high above them on the bank.

"Sounds as though they are having a party up there. With all that racket, they could never hear us if we climb up upon the bank," Frumgár muttered as he shivered beside his brother.

"Their hearing is better than you think," Fródwine replied as he turned to Frumgár. "We are very lucky. If they had been looking for us, make no mistake, brother; they would have found us!"

"A random patrol, then, and not sent out by the slaver?" Frumgár asked.

Fródwine nodded. "Fortunately for us."

Fritha had been quiet for so long that Frumgár had become worried about him. "Fritha, you have been very brave throughout this journey," he encouraged the little boy as he reached over and placed his hand on his brother's arm.

"Do you really think so?" came the small, shivery sleepy voice of Fritha, who had almost fallen asleep with his head resting against Fródwine's shoulder.

"Aye, I certainly do. Boys far older than you would have quailed at a lot less. Mother would be proud of you. I know I am." Frumgár gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

A sudden sharp whisper from Fródwine disrupted the two boys' conversation. "Listen! Over there in the camp! There seems to be some sort of disturbance. The orcs are probably quarreling. Oft times I wonder if they are capable of ever sitting down and discussing any subject without coming to blows!" His muscles stiff and aching after having carried Fritha for so long, he moved his back, shoulders, arms and legs, readjusting the little boy's weight to a more comfortable position.

"All the ones I have seen would much rather fight than talk," came Frumgár's muffled reply. "They are a contentious lot, but it makes no matter to me about what they speak, just so long as it is not of us."

Sounds of cursing and snarling began to filter down from the camp to the watery sanctuary beneath the bridge. The uproar intensified for some minutes, but then after a while all went silent, save for some low mutters and grunts. Then the voices grew louder again, intermingling with angry, short bursts of harsh, guttural growls and hisses. Understanding only a few words of the Dark Tongue, the boys assumed that a severe fight had broken out in the orc camp. There was one long, piercing howl of rage and insult, and then the sounds of scuffling, blows landing on flesh, and heavy thuds, as though bodies had been knocked to the ground. Several stern authoritarian voices rose above all the others, and the boys wondered if those belonged to the officers who were in the process of breaking up the scuffle.

Fródwine and Frumgár looked at each other when a fresh onslaught of sound struck their ears. Some creature yipped and yapped, while another howled. Others joined them, and soon a pandemonium of growls, barks, snarls, groans, shrieks, wails and howls rose up in the night air. As the cacophony grew louder, the three brothers felt the hair at the nape of their necks rise, and Fritha clapped his hands over his ears. The eerie din reminded them of the wolves in the hungry moon of winter, when the packs raced across the snow-covered landscape and dragged down the old, weak and helpless among the herds of deer.

Finally, the tumult quieted down to only a faint murmuring of voices. Then the boys heard the sound of jeering and guffaws, which gradually led up to a loud chanting and the clapping of many hands. The brothers could hear the swish of a lash rising and falling and the anguished scream of the orc who was being whipped. Together, Fródwine and Frumgár counted the slow, regular rhythm as each stripe landed upon the struggling recipient's body. By the time the whipping was completed, the brothers had tallied fifty lashes.

"I wonder if they killed the bastard," Fródwine asked indifferently, as though the matter concerned him no more than swatting a fly.

"If they did not, the monster will probably be in so much pain that he wishes that they had," Frumgár returned dryly.

"If they have - to quote an old expression - it is no hide off our backs."

After the commotion had died down, the sound was replaced by the sharp orders of officers calling the orcs to attention. A desultory attempt was made to snuff out the campfires, but the job was poorly done, and the charring logs sent their plumes of smoke into the night air. The soldiers shuffled into ranks and the company was formed up. The orcs' rest time had come to a halt. The boys listened to the heavy tramping footsteps as the orcs turned back onto the roadway. Soon the sound grew steadily fainter and then finally faded altogether as the orcs marched away.

The boys waited under the tile nearly a half an hour after the orcs had gone before Fródwine concluded that it would be safe for them to venture onto the bank. While the two older boys were stiff and chilled by the cold water and exposure, young Fritha had been spared much of their misery, for only his bare legs had gotten wet. Climbing up the bank on aching, cramping and rigid muscles, the boys struggled to the top, and Fródwine set Fritha down on the ground.

"Not the best place to spend half the night," Frumgár muttered ruefully.

"I wager that we will see worse before we are back home again, but for now, my lads, we have the warmth of a fire before us! I will race you, Frumgár!" With a soft chuckle, Fródwine loped away from his brothers to the sounds of Fritha's call of "Wait for me!"

"What took you so long? I thought perhaps the two of you had gotten lost," Fródwine smirked as the two younger boys caught up with him at the campfire. He had that insufferably infuriating expression on his face again, the one he always assumed when he was proud of himself.

Frumgár tossed down the canvas sack upon the ground. Rummaging in the pouch until he had found an old tattered rag, Frumgár knelt and rubbed Fritha's legs and feet until they were warm and dry. "Now, Fritha, dress yourself in dry clothing while I tend to drying myself. Our brother over there appears to be in no hurry to do much of anything." Frumgár shot a disapproving glare at his older brother, who reclined comfortably by the fire.

"Just enjoying the victory of outfoxing the orcs. That does not happen very often. Now while you are pawing through the food pouch, get something for you and Fritha to eat. After I leave luxuriating by this pleasant fire, I am going to get dressed and look about this camp. You never know what a good scavenger can turn up." Fródwine stretched his long, lanky body with all the muscular grace of a lean cat and stood to his feet. After putting on his clothes, the youth eased into the darkness and was swallowed up by the shadows.

The two younger boys made a meager meal from some dried fruit, and then Fritha, who was exhausted, put his head on Frumgár's lap and fell into a deep sleep. The minutes ticked by, and still Fródwine did not return. Frumgár kept his eyes fixed on the spot where their brother had disappeared. Becoming more alarmed with each passing moment, he nervously tapped his fingers on the ground to a tune that was often played at festive gatherings in the Mark. The moon by that time had sunk low into the western sky and Frumgár could barely hold his eyes open.

"Sleeping, brother?" came a smirking voice behind Frumgár, who sat bolt upright with a jerk, disturbing Fritha on his lap. The little boy sat up and looked around uncomprehendingly.

"Fródwine, I - I did not expect you to come from that direction," Frumgár mumbled sleepily, angry with the unreasonable anger that comes when a person is awakened suddenly, mutters some gibberish and feels foolish about it afterwards.

"Slipped up on you, did I, brother?" Fródwine chuckled in that mocking way of his. "Do not feel so bad about it. When I was scouting about the camp, I found something, something very interesting."

Frumgár was wide awake now and stood up to face his brother. "What is it?"

"This," he hissed in a long whisper as he held up a military knapsack. "One of the devils must have been distracted by the commotion and walked off, completely forgetting his possessions. His misfortune is our good fortune."

"Let me see!" Frumgár demanded as he stepped closer and reached for the bag.

"Not so fast, little brother!" Fródwine slapped away Frumgár's hand. "This is not for little boys!"

"All right, what is it?" Frumgár rubbed his stinging hand, frowning at his brother.

"First this," he exclaimed as he drew out a leather wrapper from the sack. "Some kind of bread! We will eat a little better now."

"Fródwine!" his younger brother gasped. "Food? You found food?"

"Aye, and more too." Fródwine was close to dancing as he took out a small metal box. "A tinderbox, brother! We can build fires!"

"Fródwine, I - I do not know what to say. This is wonderful good fortune!"

"But there is more, much more, little brother!" Fródwine's voice had taken on an unfamiliar timbre that did not seem at all like his own.

"What is it?" Frumgár whispered.

"Do not be in such a hurry to see my surprises! You must wait for good things," Fródwine laughed as Fritha looked at him in confusion.

"If you are punishing me because I reached for the knapsack, you do not have to worry. I do not want any part of it!" Frumgár spoke as calmly and quietly as he could, for Fródwine's mood had alarmed him.

"This, brother, this!" Fródwine held up a dagger. With an exultant yell, he raised the dagger above his head, marveling as the firelight glittered upon the steel.

"Very impressive, brother." Frumgár folded his arms across his chest and met his brother's fierce gaze with one of bland indifference. "Now are you going to stand there all night, admiring your find?" Fródwine's strange mood was alarming Fritha, and Frumgár moved closer to his little brother.

"No, of course not," Fródwine laughed as he slipped the dagger into its sheath. "Now you are going to pack this orc trove with our gear in the sack. We will fill the orc's pack with rocks of equal weight to what we are taking. If he returns, maybe he will just shoulder the pack and never suspect a thing until he is miles up the road. Now we are going to put as much distance between us and this place as we can before dawn."

"Fródwine, the food will certainly alleviate the pangs in our gnawing stomachs. You had a good idea to look around to see if they had left anything." Frumgár kept his voice soft and calm. He had been concerned at the resurgence of the wild streak which lay just submerged beneath the outer layer of his brother's personality.

"Ah, little brother," Fródwine put his arm around Frumgár's shoulder in a friendly gesture, "I have not shown you all of the treasures. The dagger, of course, was the best, but there is another excellent thing which I found."

"What is it?" Frumgár asked curiously.

"Look inside the pack," Fródwine whispered conspiratorially. "It is not for Fritha. If you are a good boy, little brother, I might share some with you, but you must be very good."

"What is it?" Something about Fródwine's manner made Frumgár suspicious.

"Reach in the pack and take out the flask. Just one sniff of it and you will know."

"Orc draught!" Frumgár exclaimed as he took the stopper from the container.

"That is right, my lad. Strong enough to knock over a mule! I will be the sole keeper of this!" A proud grin lit up Fródwine's face.

"Are you really going to drink that stuff?" Frumgár made an ugly face. "I have heard it is horrible."

"I will save it for a special occasion, my lad," Fródwine chuckled, a gleam in his eye. "Now let us be going!"


	42. Chapter 41 - A Message and a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Driven by her pursuers into an old crypt in Osgiliath, Goldwyn finds herself trapped in a nightmare from which there is no awakening. But are the horrors real, or only figments of her guilt-tormented mind?
> 
> Having successfully evaded the orcs, Fródwine, Frumgár and Fritha are on a quest to get back to Rohan. However, this is not some childish adventure - it is a matter of life and death.
> 
> Journeying through the wasteland of Anorien, Elfhild and Elffled desperately try to keep one step ahead of the slavers. But will they be successful?
> 
> Can any of them escape the evil destiny which the enemy has planned for them, or is to attempt to do so utterly useless?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was imported from another site, where it had been read 22922 times.

Chapter Written by Angmar

Jubilant at the discovery of the spoil in the orc's knapsack, Fródwine was in an extraordinarily good mood as he led his brothers over the Great West Road. Once safely across, he considered sampling the orc draught, but decided that a celebration at that time was premature. He wanted plenty of time to savor the purloined brew at his leisure. The boy paused for a moment and gazed up at the dark, shadowy silhouettes of the mountains far away. Already In his imagination, he could see all three of them back in Rohan.

"How far are we from home, Fródwine?" Fritha asked curiously, not really understanding the concept of the great distance. As he gripped Frumgár's hand, his gaze followed that of Fródwine's. "I know it is a very long way."

"Over seventy leagues."

Frumgár groaned. "Over seventy leagues! Do you have to remind us? There will not be any soles left on our shoes by the time we get there!"

"Merely answering his question, Frumgár, but we will never get there standing around like this and talking about it. Time to move out once again, brothers," Fródwine replied jauntily as he swung into a quick walk, his loose swinging stride leaving his brothers lagging behind. He fumed whenever he had to stop for Fritha, whose short legs stumbled over the uneven ground. Still, he drove the two younger boys onward at a fast pace, stopping only when Fritha was too exhausted to walk any longer. Then Fródwine reluctantly allowed a short rest, but soon he pressed them to get up and start moving again.

Occasionally the two older boys glanced over their shoulders to see whether they were being followed. Surely by that time, the orc would have discovered that his knapsack had been filled with rocks and realize that he had been robbed. However, their fears were for naught. When at last the orc found that he had been tricked, he decided that it was wiser to keep silent and suffer rather than risk punishment and ridicule for his gross negligence.

Heading due west towards the mountains, the boys appeared as an infinitesimally small speck of life upon the vast, dark landscape. The only sounds in that great expanse were their breathing, their quiet, subdued talk, and the thudding of their footsteps upon the barren ground. Even Fritha did not ask his usual questions, and the little boy walked along quietly, his face screwed up as though he were pondering something.

Suddenly, he gave a little cry and stopped dead in his tracks. "Brothers, do not move!" he exclaimed in an urgent whisper. He gripped Frumgár's hand so tightly that Frumgár wondered if his little brother might crack his very bones.

"Fritha!" Frumgár muttered sharply. "Stop that! You are going to break my hand!"

Holding on even tighter, Fritha looked up at Frumgár incredulously. "What is wrong with you two? Have you gone deaf? Can you not hear the man? He is very sad." The little boy raised his head and gazed up at the inky heavens.

"What are you talking about?" Frumgár snapped irritably as he forcefully pried Fritha's fingers away. "There is no one here but us. Now, come along and quit stalling! Do you have to pee or something? We can stop for that."

"No, I do not have to pee or anything else! I am not a little baby!" Fritha returned testily. "Oh! The man is talking to you now! He is calling your name! Can you not hear him?"

"Man? What man? There is no man! Stop talking such rubbish!" Alarmed by Fritha's strange revelation, Frumgár went pale. Why was he talking such foolishness? If Fritha were playing a joke, it was not a welcome one. Still it was not his little brother's custom to invent people who did not exist and expect his brothers to go along with the game. He must be ill! On the verge of panic, Frumgár grabbed his older brother's sleeve and jerked it hard. "Fródwine! Something is wrong with Fritha! I think he is sick!"

Scowling, Fródwine halted and turned back to them. "There is nothing wrong with him! He is just sleepy and cross, and we do not have time to pamper him! We need to cover more distance before we can rest! Be quiet, Fritha!"

Frumgár frantically jabbed his finger towards Fritha. "But just listen to him, Fródwine! He is talking that same sort of mad nonsense that poor Breguswith did after her baby died! He is ill, I tell you! He is ill! We need to stop and rest!" he cried desperately.

"I am fine!" Fritha adamantly insisted, "but something is the matter with you! Look up there!" He pointed towards the sable sky. "You can see him, too, if you just try!"

"I am looking, Fritha; believe me, I am looking," Fródwine muttered coldly as he stared intently into the heavens. "But I can see nothing! Is this man I am supposed to be seeing just floating there, or does he flutter back and forth like a moth?"

"No, he is riding on a great big bird," Fritha declared, annoyed at his brothers' disbelief. "Let me see... the bird looks something like a vulture... with bat's wings."

"See what I mean, Fródwine," Frumgár whispered nervously. "He is coming down with something, perhaps the Plague! We must halt here and allow him to rest!"

His expression threatening, Fródwine crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the little boy. "While you might entertain yourself by making up these outlandish stories, I am not amused, Fritha."

"Fródwine, I am not making up anything!" Fritha stomped his foot and crossed his arms over his chest, sarcastically imitating his brother's stance.

Fródwine sighed in resignation. Though Fritha appeared in excellent health, one never could tell with these little children, and he did sound sincere. "Perhaps Frumgár is right and you really are coming down with the Plague or some other ailment. You are talking out of your head, Fritha!" With the back of his hand, he felt Fritha's forehead and then spat in disgust. "Your forehead is perfectly cool, little brother, so I must conclude that all this commotion is simply an attempt to get attention. This is no time for silly antics, so behave yourself!"

"I told you I was not ill! And I am not sleepy, either! There really is a man in the sky flying on a big bird!" Fritha's eyes went wide. "Oh! Oh! He spoke to me again!"

"All right, Fritha. If you insist on maintaining this farce, I will humor you, but only for a little while," Fródwine grumbled. "We still have a lot of walking to do tonight. What did this man on the flying vulture have to say?"

"Well, it was very strange indeed. He asked me, 'Do you prefer the vintages of Dorwinion or Nurn?' And then he said something else, in a pleasant, jolly sort of way, but I could make little sense of it." Fritha scratched his head in bewilderment.

"All right, what did he say?" Fródwine huffed in disgust, rolling his eyes skyward. "Fritha, your foolishness is beginning to vex me. I do not want to spank you, but if I must..." Pausing, he gave Fritha time to contemplate his words.

Undeterred by Fródwine's thinly veiled threat, Fritha charged forward. "I think he said, 'The revelers are merry in the halls of Mandos, and the goblets are filled to the brim with limpë. But upon this bitter earth, the cup is overflowing with woe and all must drink the dregs.'" Confusion written on his face, he cocked his head and looked at his elder brother. "Does that make any sense, Fródwine?"

Groaning, Frumgár clasped his forehead and muttered, "By Béma's bones! Our brother has gone mad!"

Fródwine snorted. "The only thing it says to me is that little boys who make up such stories need a switch taken to their behinds. They must learn that lying is wrong, else they will grow up to be deceivers!"

"I am not making up anything; he is really there!" Fritha exclaimed emphatically. "I think talking to me made him feel better, because he seems much happier now. But he is really not happy at all; I mean underneath where his heart is. He is a lot like the ghosts you tell about in your stories, Frumgár, the ones who are sad and melancholy all the time. You always say they haunt because they are trapped here and cannot leave. He really does not scare me... well, maybe he did just a little at first."

Frumgár and Fródwine exchanged knowing glances. Frumgár whispered into his brother's ear, "Fródwine, Fritha is becoming stranger and stranger, babbling mad talk. He is alarming me. I think he is out of his head with some kind of fever. Maybe he took a chill when we had to stay in the cold water under the bridge. Perhaps you should let him rest a while. He is so very little... I know it is not time for us to eat, but perhaps you could part with a little bread for him. He is so very little. Give him my breakfast rations."

"I will keep your suggestion under consideration, Frumgár, but we cannot stay here any longer," Fródwine growled and turned away. "We have to go!"

"Come, Fritha, take my hand." Frumgár told him gently, extending his hand to his little brother. "We will not be marching much longer, and then we can rest."

"Frumgár, I am afraid that my new friend would be disappointed if we left now. He said that the time had not yet come for him to depart! I am not going anywhere until he grants me leave!" Fritha stamped his foot defiantly.

"Fritha, we have to be going. Do you want to get Fródwine started again?" Frumgár bent down and whispered in his ear, desperate to convince Fritha to cooperate. "You know how he is when he is angry!" It would be just like Fródwine to go off and leave them for spite!

"Fródwine ought to be a lot more afraid of making the man on the big bird angry!" Fritha exclaimed. "He said that Fródwine is a bad, ill-mannered boy, and really quite rude!"

Overwhelmed with worry, Frumgár began to bite his already over-short nails. "Stop talking like that, Fritha! You are so tired that you are imagining things!" Frumgár began to wonder if there was some truth to Fritha's words, but he did not like to think of that possibility.

Suddenly Fritha burst out into giggles and clapped his hands together. "Guess what, Fródwine! My friend says he is going to carry you off and drop you in a lake if you are not nicer to me!"

"Oh hell!" Fródwine cursed under his breath. "That does it, Fritha!" With a roar, he lunged for the little boy. Just when he grabbed for the smirking child, a bottle plummeted from the heavens and landed right in front of his toe. Screaming in alarm, Fródwine leapt high in the air, sailing over the bottle. The two older boys gaped speechlessly as they watched the bottle roll away over the ground without breaking.

Above their heads came the sound of fey laughter which seemed to echo and reverberate as though coming from the shadowy depths of a cave. A gust of frigid wind blew about them, tousling their hair and raising icy prickles upon their skin. Howling and shrieking in mirthful morbidity, a great shape darker than the night soared across the star-strewn heavens, causing the celestial lights to vanish as though a cloak had been thrown over them.

"By Béma's beard! What was that?" Fródwine's voice trembled and he felt dizzy with fear. He needed to sit down but he stood on shaky legs, not wanting his brothers to suspect that he was on the verge of swooning.

"It was the man on the great bird!" Fritha exclaimed, a broad smile lighting up his features. "Come back!" he cried, waving his arms as he stared towards the east where the rider of the skies had disappeared. "Please come back!"

"Do not say that!" Frumgár admonished in horror. "He might just do it!"

"Oh, I hope so!" While Fritha was on the verge of tears, at least he had the satisfaction of being right all the time. "I told you that he was there, but you would not believe me! Maybe you will next time!"

"Next time?" Frumgár cried. "I pray that there will never be a next time! Please let us flee from this place! He might come back!"

"Oh! Oh! I am going to get the bottle!" Fritha exclaimed excitedly as he raced towards the bottle which had rolled a short distance away.

"You will not touch that accursed thing, Fritha! The fiend no doubt dipped it in poison!" Fródwine shouted as he lifted his shocked little brother and threw him over his shoulder. "Come on, Frumgár! This place is evil!" The two older boys broke into a trot while Fritha struggled and cursed, straining his eyes as he stared into the darkened heavens.

"Put me down, Fródwine!" Fritha yelled as he drummed his feet against Fródwine's chest and pounded his hands on his back. "He did not drop the bottle on purpose! It was only an accident! He is a tipsy wraith, after all. Oh, Fródwine, how could you have been so unkind? You have hurt his feelings and made him leave! Now he will never let me ride on his flying steed!"

Still maintaining a brisk pace, Fródwine muttered a long string of curses. "This foul phantom has bewitched you, lad, and put you under some kind of spell! At first I thought you were only jesting with us or playing some kind of pretend game. Now I realize just what your new 'friend' is! He is a wicked and dreadful foe, one of the darkest beings in all of Middle-earth. The demon is a dwimmerlaik, a fell spirit who possesses the blackest kind of evil magic! He has enchanted you!"

"Fródwine," Frumgár whimpered, "I fear now for all of us! This has been a dreadful day, my brothers!"

"He is not evil! He is not, I tell you!" Fritha sobbed as he renewed his struggles. "He is my friend, and you are just mean and jealous, Fródwine!"

"Lad, you do not know what you are talking about! We are all lucky that he did not kill us! He easily could have, you know! We have no way of fighting a monstrosity like that! Now settle down before you kick me in the kidney!" Fródwine growled.

"You are just plain cruel, Fródwine," Fritha wailed. "Now he will never come back and talk to me!"

"Good riddance," Frumgár added, muttering a prayer against evil.

Hiccuping, Fritha used the back of Fródwine's tunic to wipe off his tear-drenched face and, with a loud honk, he blow his dripping nose on the cloth. "You never even let me tell you the last thing that he whispered to me!"

"Now that is too much!" Fródwine bellowed as he smacked Fritha's upturned bottom with a smart slap and then lowered him to the ground. "Next time, wipe your snivel off on your own shirt!"

"I had to use something!" he wailed. "I do not have a handkerchief!"

"Here, use mine, it is not too soiled," Frumgár offered.

After giving Fródwine a very offended frown, Fritha blew his nose loudly on Frumgár's handkerchief. "You would not even listen to the last thing he said!"

"All right, all right, what did he say?" Fródwine's gruff question came out in a resigned, long-suffering sigh.

"He said that someday that I would learn that life is only a game between kings, and men are the pawns. This turn, the White Knight has put the Black King into check. He also told me that even that is of little consequence, for victories and defeats are only grains of sand in the hourglass of time. Oh, he said many high and lofty things and used big words which I did not understand! Do you know what he meant about the White Knight and the Black King?"

"No, I do not know what he meant!" Fródwine growled. "Some sort of magic gibberish, I suppose!" Kneeling down on the ground in front of Fritha, he placed his hands on his shoulders, his voice a forced calm. "Fritha, I would suggest that you never mention this incident to another soul. They will be convinced that you are either mad or enchanted, neither of which is an enviable position! Now come along! We are going!"

***

The dark shade had frightened Fródwine to the depths of his being, but he had also believed that the dwimmerlaik was laughing at him personally. If the powerful spectre had meant to do harm to all of them, he certainly would have had that power. No, instead, he had chosen Fritha to be the brunt of a mischievous joke, or did the phantom have ulterior motives? Would he come back, and if he did, was there any way to fight him? One more heavy burden to be added to his already worried mind, the youth's square jaw clenched in a hard line. He fell into silence until near dawn, when he led his brothers to the perimeter of the Grey Wood. Low in the eastern horizon, the light blue sky was scattered with clouds of peach and rose.

"Eat," came his somber command. Opening the food sack, he took out the leather bags and parcels. A scowl upon his face, Fródwine unfastened the leather packet of orc bread and broke a piece off for each of them. They chewed their bread silently until at last Frumgár gathered the courage to speak on a neutral subject - the weather.

"From the appearance of the sky, our heads will be wet before the day is done," Frumgár pointed out as he prosaically regarded the slowly brightening sky.

"Aye, Frumgár," Fródwine muttered as he chewed the tasteless bread and gazed at the clouds. "Except for that incident last night, things did not turn out that badly for us. Our scent should have been mingled with that of others when we crossed the road. I do not think the orcs can pick it from all the many others. Then after the rain falls, any remaining tracks and scents that are left will be washed away."

Frumgár shook his head as he dubiously regarded the grayish piece of orc bread in his hand. "I do not know, Fródwine. Does it really matter now about the orcs? According to my way of thinking, all that phantom or whatever it was has to do is tell his soldiers where we are."

"He will not, Frumgár! I know he will not! He is my friend!" Fritha declared emphatically.

"I thought we were not speaking any more about that, brother." Frumgár shot him a warning look.

"Maybe you will not talk about it, but I will speak about him whenever I want!"

"Be still, Fritha!" Frumgár warned him in a whisper.

Fródwine rose to his feet suddenly and, stalking over to Fritha, he glared down at the little boy. "You will not mention any of that again! You did not see anything! There was nothing there! Do you understand?"

Fritha's eyes narrowed. "But what about the bottle?"

"There was no bottle."

"Come on, Fródwine. Everyone saw the vulture riders as they flew by when we were all marching down here. You cannot deny that." Frumgár felt that he should take Fritha's part on this. "We just never knew that they could talk, only shriek and howl."

"Look, Frumgár," Fródwine bristled up angrily, his face turning red, "when we get back home, we do not want him blathering about his 'friend' to everyone he sees. People will think that he is fey, or even worse, that he has become a thrall of the enemy! For his own good, he must speak to no one about this! You have more influence with him than I do. Try to reason with him. I have done all I can."

Fródwine turned his back and walked away into the woods. The storm clouds broke loose over Fritha's upturned face before his older brother had gotten out of sight, and tears ran down his cheeks like rain.

"What he says is true, Fritha." Frumgár looked down at the ground. "Whatever that thing--"

Fritha interrupted with a sob. "He is not a thing!"

"That - that - person... Whether he is good or bad, people believe that his kind are all evil. If you say you are friends with him, you know what people will think about you - that you are just like he is. So, please, little brother, for all our sakes, for the sake of our parents' reputation, speak nothing about this to anyone! Now promise me that when we get back home, you will not talk about it."

"Can I tell you about him, Frumgár?"

Frumgár sighed in resignation and looked up at the sky. "Oh, I suppose so."

Sniffing, Fritha beamed a teary eyed smile at his brother. "I do not think he is bad, Frumgár! Maybe he will come back, and then we will all be friends!"

"Maybe... But should not think any more about him now. You need to get some rest." To avoid arguments, he decided that he would humor his brother. Rising to his feet, Frumgár tousled the little boy's shaggy blond mane, bringing a protest to his lips.

***

_Here ends the third book of THE CIRCLES._

The fourth book is called PATHS BOTH EAST AND WEST, since it deals with the journeys of the Rohirric captives, the three sons of Goldwyn, and twin sisters Elfhild and Elffled.


End file.
